


Divinations

by This Waiting Heart (ThisWaitingHeart)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, Like, M/M, Slow Build, background Hermione Granger / Ron Weasley, very slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 23:31:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8077555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisWaitingHeart/pseuds/This%20Waiting%20Heart
Summary: Harry is an Auror who has issues, and Draco a healer pretending he doesn't. When a series of curse attacks forces them to work together, the library at No 12 Grimmauld Place is not the only thing that gets aired out. 
Updates whenever I can find the time; I'm doing a PhD after all.





	1. The Fool, upright

**Author's Note:**

> For [Catheas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Catheas/pseuds/Catheas), my Slytherin sister, who makes me finish this fic.

 

_“Hasn’t your experience with the Time-Turner taught you anything, Harry? The consequences of our actions are always so complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a very difficult business indeed…”_

_~ Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_

 

* * *

  

The day had begun bloody badly, and it was not getting any better.

The rain had started about twenty minutes out of Ottery St. Catchpole, and hadn’t stopped ever since. The silence in the car, strangely emphasized by the sloshing of the wind-shield wipers, had become oppressive after a while, and because Harry did not fancy hearing himself thinking all that much, he had turned on the radio. While he had been busy switching stations, he must have missed the right exit. It is the only plausible explanation for why he is currently lost in the countryside in southern England.

It is not like he doesn’t have a general idea of his relative position. The problem is rather that he has no clue which of the turns he is taking actually lead him closer to where he wants to be (London) as opposed to where he doesn’t want to be (lost in bloody Wiltshire at half past midnight on a Monday in January). Based on his considerable uncertainty regarding his whereabouts and the deluge outside, there is a fair chance that returning the car to Hermione is not going to happen tonight. Brilliant. Just bloody fucking _brilliant_. Because more of Hermione‘s stifled sighs and Ron‘s pitiful looks (when he thinks Harry doesn‘t notice) are exactly what he needs. It‘s not like he had enough of those over Christmas.

Harry turns down another road that looks like it was never meant to be used by any sort of vehicle larger than a bicycle (there are a lot of those around here) when he hears the weird noise. It’s a squeaky, metallic sound that he doesn’t like. No car should sound like that, especially at this time of night. He turns off the radio and strains to listen. The squeaking gets quieter while the road is fairly straight, but when he turns around a bend, there are more noises. This time, it‘s not only the squeaking, but also a metallic screeching and a low clonk clonk as if something is coming loose somewhere where it is not supposed to. Cursing under his breath, he reduces speed and checks the petrol meter. Apparently the tank is still half-full, so that can’t be the problem.

Another bend, more screeching, and then the engine suddenly goes quiet. The car comes to a stop rather abruptly, but at least he doesn’t end up in the ditch. Harry tries the ignition, once, twice, but nothing happens. He waits a couple of minutes, then tries again. Still no reaction. For a moment, he considers getting his hands dirty and checking the engine itself, but he only has a very vague idea about how cars actually work, so that’s probably not going to help. Where is Hermione and her Muggle studies when you need her. Or anyone with a little more clue than himself, actually.

Dropping his head on the wheel, he tries to get accustomed to the idea of being stranded in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of the night. In the middle of a bloody re-enactment of the Great Deluge. Just fucking fantastic. Speak of a bad day gone worse.

After a couple of minutes of wallowing in his own misery, Harry manages to pull himself together. He is not going to sleep in the car, at least not if he can help it. Even Wiltshire can’t be completely uninhabited, and this road must lead _somewhere_ , so there’s a chance there might be a hamlet or at least some cottages close by. Grabbing his overnight bag in an act of desperation, he opens the door and gets out.

The road is, as he expected, deserted. Unfortunately, it is also only barely wide enough for one car, so good luck to anyone who tries to go by this road any time soon, unlikely as that may be. Now for the logistics of his rescue. He knows it’s been a while since he passed the last signs of habitation, so he heads down the road in the direction he was going in before his ride literally died under him. If he’s lucky, the next village is just around the bend of the road. If not, well. Then he’d have to think of something else. The rain is still pouring down, of course, and he’s drenched within minutes.

 

***

 

Harry drudges on through the rain for what must be almost half an hour before he encounters any sign that there are actually _people_ around. And even then not quite in the way he expected. Instead of a cottage (with, hopefully, a telephone and a place to dry his soaked clothes), he finds a meticulously maintained hedge and a rather pretty, iron-wrought gate. He experimentally gives it a push and, to his surprise, the gate swings open. Now this is odd. Gates such as this usually belong to manor houses, and are usually locked. _Especially in the middle of the night_ , he reminds himself. Still, a gate and a hedge means a house, and probably a telephone.

Because he can’t quite overcome years of Auror training, he pulls his wand out of his waistband and pushes it up his sleeve. Better safe than sorry. Thus prepared for any eventuality, magical or otherwise, he hoists his bag higher up on his shoulder and steps through the gate.

On the other side of the hedge he finds a rather neat, well-maintained garden, at least as far as he can tell through the rain that still falls in sheets. A gravel path leads away from the gate and up a soft slope, and there are flowerbeds and some shrubs on his right. On his left, a lawn opens, and Harry thinks he can see a number of large trees in the distance. Judging by the dark mass that looms over his surroundings a little further up the slope, the path is heading straight towards the house. Deciding this to be the only sensible direction which to head in, Harry takes a couple of careful steps in the dark.

Despite the rain, the ground seems solid enough, and anxious to get some place dry, he quickens his step. The gravel crunches and squeaks under his shoes as he walks up the path, and the sound is terribly loud in his ears. If there is anyone still awake in the house, there is a good chance they have heard him now. Knowing his luck, this is probably one of the places where the gamekeeper still keeps guns around to keep the foxes off the chickens. Or intruders off the lawn. Whichever happens more often.

There are more shrubs, and a number of bushes cut in strange, undefined shapes that jump up before him rather unexpectedly. When he follows the path around them, he almost steps on a white shape that seems to have appeared from nowhere. The thing emits a squeak, Harry curses under his breath, and then the bird scurries away into the night. Harry stops to take a breath and calm his racing heart, but before he can push is pulse down to a normal level, there is another sound, this time to his left. It’s much too big for another bird, but before he can come to a more conclusive verdict, the garden is flooded in a bright light.

“Who’s there?” a male voice asks. A voice Harry has last heard eight years ago in a Ministry courtroom.

Bloody hell. Apparently he has managed to accidentally end up on Draco Malfoy’s front lawn.

 

***

 

His first impression turns out to be correct. He has indeed managed to stumble into the horticultural section of the Malfoy estate, and, standing a little way to his left, is the man himself. He has his wand raised, and a golden, glimmering ball of light floats a little above his head, drowning Harry and his surroundings in the blinding brightness of an artificial dawn. Slowly, Harry raises his hands where Malfoy, squinting in the bright light, can see them.

“I’m sorry,” he tries, hoping that his voice sounds as pacifying as he wants it to be. It’s not like they have the best track record, especially when wand-pointing is involved. Malfoy remains silent and quite impassive.

“I’m here by accident,” Harry elaborates. “I didn’t mean to trespass.” Well, he _was_ looking for some kind of sign of civilization, and if he was trespassing just a little, Malfoy doesn’t need to know.

In lieu of a response, there is a movement on Malfoy’s face that Harry can’t quite place. Some twist of the mouth and a quick, impatient shake of the head that could mean anything. Then, Malfoy steps closer, but he doesn’t lower his wand. “Potter, what the hell? It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

“Yeah, I know.” _No shit, Sherlock_. “My car broke down, and I was looking for a place where I could call the mechanics’ from. But that’s not happening here, I guess.” Harry knows he’s rambling, but he’s making this up on the go, and having a conversation with Draco Malfoy in the pouring rain in the middle of the night is just so completely out of anything he expected from this already crazy day that he needs a moment to get his thoughts in order. Especially since it’s an almost civilized conversation, at least for their standards. So far, neither of them have tried to hex the other, and Malfoy doesn’t even seem particularly angry. Just annoyed and maybe a bit confused. If keeping things that way comes at the cost of some oversharing on his part, so be it.

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Um, yeah? OK.” Fuck Malfoy and his complete and utter ignorance when it comes to anything that vaguely smells of Muggles. Cars, mechanics – apparently not his field of expertise. Not that it is Harry’s, but at least he is familiar with the general procedure involved in car-related malfunctions.

“Look, I’m willing to explain,” Harry amends. “It’s just –“. A raised eyebrow. Stupid git. “It’s cold and I’m completely drenched, so could we, maybe, continue this conversation somewhere where we’re _not_ getting drowned at the same time?”

“ _I’m_ not getting drowned.” Obviously. Malfoy is, of course, perfectly dry. “Seriously, Potter, have you never heard of an umbrella charm?”

Yeah. That would have been a good idea. What a shame that he didn’t think of it himself. Not that he’s ever going to admit that; Malfoy already looks far too smug for his own good.

“I didn’t know if there were any Muggles around, and I only realized where I was when I practically stepped on one of your peacocks.”

That isn’t even a lie, but he can tell Malfoy isn’t buying it. The raised eyebrow is back, this time accompanied by its equally pale twin, and the twist of his mouth speaks volumes. He’s definitely sceptical, and Harry considers returning to his car. When compared with the option of spending more time in the company of a testy and probably tired Malfoy, the cramped back seat of Hermione’s trusted steed (now sadly deceased) doesn’t seem quite so unappealing any more.

“You know what, Malfoy? Forget it.” It’s not like he owes Malfoy an explanation. He really doesn’t owe him anything. He doesn’t even have to be here. He shrugs in the hopes of looking careless and unimpressed, and turns to leave when a movement catches his eye.

It’s Malfoy ( _obviously_ ), but his reaction is not what Harry expects it to be. Instead of stomping off offendedly, or hexing him, or _any_ malfoyesque reaction, really, he merely sighs and shakes his head. He looks exhausted, Harry thinks, and like he’s giving up on something despite his better judgement.

“Potter, the next village is five miles off. Unless you fancy walking there in the rain, _sans_ umbrella charm, I suppose you’d better come in.”

Harry, taken aback by the tone of resignation in Malfoy’s voice, can’t help his jaw from dropping. He closes his mouth quickly when he catches Malfoy’s gaze. Just like him to look judgemental even while issuing an invitation. “Are you serious?” Harry asks because he can’t quite believe his luck. Bad luck. Whatever.

“Believe me, I wouldn’t be offering if I wasn’t. _Especially_ to you.”

Harry bristles at the inflection. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Malfoy lifts both hands in a pacifying gesture, and the orb of light above them wavers slightly. His eyes flick up momentarily, and then they’re back on Harry. “Just that you’re not at the top of my list of favourite people. And somehow I doubt I’d make it into _your_ top ten as well.”

Harry considers this for a moment. Not the top ten, no. But probably not the bottom ten, either, come to think of it. A little belatedly, he shakes his head. “Nope, definitely not.”

“Brilliant. Now that we’ve settled this, do you think you could bring yourself to continue this conversation inside?”

Harry nods, at which Malfoy lowers his wand and turns towards the house. The ball of light above their heads vanishes instantaneously and the darkness, though not quite absolute, crowds in around them. He can just about make out Malfoy in front of him, heading around the corner of the house and over a gravelled terrace to a pair of French windows, dark and wide open in the sleeting rain.

While he follows, Harry wonders whether Malfoy has always spoken sarcasm fluently. He supposes he must have; he has always been a little too fond of verbal sparring. And other forms of dramatics, he remembers, when Malfoy gestures him through the open window in a mock-bow. He can’t quite suppress a grin, though it fades quickly when Malfoy raises his wand. Contemplating revoking his earlier assessment about their “civil interaction”, Harry’s first reaction is to draw his own, but he suppresses the urge. Whatever his experience may tell him, he is willing to bet that this Malfoy is not the kind of person who curses someone on their doorstep. And besides, he _has_  just invited him in, onerous and unpleasant as he might pretend to find that.

His intuition is right. Malfoy flicks his wand once to close the windows behind them, and then again to light the candles in what must be a parlour or sun room. Then he turns towards Harry, performing another spell that comes with an odd, circular hand movement and a quick sequence of murmured words. It isn‘t a curse he produces, but some kind of elaborate drying charm that leaves Harry’s hair and clothes comfortably warm and dry, and faintly smelling of some flowery scent he can’t place. It’s actually quite nice, but he sure as hell isn’t going to admit that.

“Well, that’s better. I can’t have you dripping all over my mother’s carpets.”

“Thanks,” Harry murmurs, but Malfoy is already crossing to the other side of the room in quick strides, making for a dark, double door.

Harry, not keen on being left alone anywhere in the Manor (not even a room that looks so comfortable and well-used as Narcissa Malfoy’s conservatory), follows quickly. Too intent on not losing Malfoy to pay any closer attention to his surroundings, he immediately bumps into something hard and unrelenting. The thing that has come in such excruciating contact with his kneecap turns out to be a low coffee table. “Bloody hell,” he curses, holding back from kicking at the table to vent his frustration. Instead, he he rubs his knee vigorously, even though he knows that won’t help with either the pain, or the bruise he’s sure is forming where he has bumped his knee.

“I would be grateful if you could try to keep your expletives under control,” Malfoy says from somewhere closer to the door, and when Harry looks over he can see exasperation clearly written all over his face. “I really do not wish to wake my mother, and I doubt you have a burning desire to explain your presence here, either.”

“Not particularly,” Harry admits, still rubbing his knee. The absence of malice in Malfoy’s voice is a bit disconcerting, and Harry throws him a sideways glance, just to be sure. He definitely looks annoyed, but also the slightest bit amused, and around the edges there’s an obvious tinge of something that Harry has put down as exhaustion. Neither of these expressions is entirely new, but seeing them all merged like this, and, more importantly, in relation to _him_ , is still somewhat weird. The obvious lack of aggression, in particular, is unusual, seeing that in all of their fifteen years of acquaintance they haven’t spent more than five minutes in each other’s company without fighting or riling each other up. It’s something of their normal mode of communication, and this is an anomaly. A _huge_ anomaly, probably the size of a dying sun, or a black hole. Whichever is bigger.

Harry realizes Malfoy must have been speaking when he turns for the door, and he barely catches a quick “Come along, then.”

Malfoy doesn’t bother to light any more candles, and together they make their way down a long, dark hallway. Thick carpets muffle their steps, and in the light of Malfoy’s wand portraits of some long-dead pale-faced ancestors flash up on the walls occasionally. The inhabitants seem to be watching them intently, but none of them follow them through the other paintings like the portraits at Hogwarts would have done. It seems running after some nightly visitor is far below the dignity of any Malfoy, past or present, and Harry can’t say he particularly minds.

Malfoy stops in front of a pair of handsome, dark double doors, virtually identical with those further up and down the corridor. Harry has a vague memory of doors like these from the one time he has been at the manor before, and he has to suppress a shudder. When Malfoy pushes them open, though, it’s not the drawing room they enter. Instead, Malfoy has picked a large, two-storey room with walls that seem to be covered almost entirely in bookcases. The library, thank Merlin.

Malfoy’s thoughts seem to have run along similar lines. “I didn’t think you’d fancy the drawing room,“ he says offhandedly when he flicks his wand to light some candles, but the stiffness with which he holds himself makes Harry wonder how much of his apparent indifference is just affectation. He wouldn’t be surprised if memories of Voldemort’s extended stay at the manor weren’t Malfoy’s choice topic of conversation, either. Judging from the bits and pieces he has seen, it can’t have been pleasant.

They head over to the further end of the room, where a few chairs and tables are scattered haphazardly around a large, ornate fireplace. There is no fire in the grate, and even though the night is chilly and damp, Malfoy doesn’t bother to light one. Instead, he busies himself with some bottles on a low, spindly-legged table in the corner, and Harry is left staring at his back. His knee still throbs dully, but at least it’s keeping him awake. Because now that he is no longer driving, or trudging through the countryside, Harry feels exhaustion creep up on him. She has become a constant companion over the last couple of months, together with her evil twin, bad sleep, and their cousin, distraction. Harry hates the company of any one of them, but somehow he is still unable to shake the bone-tiredness that sets in as soon as he has a moment to catch his breath. How unlucky that she can so rarely be alleviated by sleep.

He is forced to reel in his wandering thoughts when Malfoy holds up a pitcher of water and a bottle of Firewhisky.

“Which one?” he asks, and Harry doesn’t get it.

“What?” He shakes his head. It helps a little with the tiredness, but only briefly, and Malfoy’s meaning still remains entirely beyond him.

Thankfully, Malfoy is kind enough to elaborate, even though the look he gives Harry speaks volumes. “Which one is it? Water or whisky? I would offer you tea, but thanks to your friend Granger our house-elves now have contracts stating they’re not required to work after Midnight – and I’m not going down to the kitchen myself in the middle of the night.”

“Oh, ok.” Understanding dawns on Harry. “Either is fine, really. Whatever you’re having.”

Malfoy nods, puts down the pitcher and pours them both a generous amount of whisky. When Harry takes the glass, Malfoy gestures towards two armchairs that are placed in a convenient distance from the grate. “Have a seat.”

A little awkwardly, Harry lets himself drop into the chair. It’s surprisingly comfortable. Somehow, he has Malfoy put down as the kind of person who values style over comfort, but he’s not sorry to be proven wrong.

Malfoy takes the chair across from him. Much more gracefully than himself, Harry notices. He balances his glass on the armrest and fixes his eyes on Harry. “Now, spill.”

“What?”

“You still owe me an explanation.” Malfoy takes a sip from his glass and raises an expectant eyebrow. It‘s a bit of a silly look on him, Harry thinks. Undermines all the rest of his natural grace because it makes him look like some villain from a silent movie. When the second eyebrow joins the first, Harry assumes Malfoy has caught him staring. He doubts he is able to be very subtle about it at this time of night.

“Potter?“

“Yes, sorry.“ Harry shakes his head to shift the sludge that has settled in his brain. “Do you really want to know?” he asks.

“Would I be asking if I didn’t?” Malfoy replies, voice even.

“Point,” Harry concedes. “It’s not that much of a story, though. I was driving back to London. In Hermione’s car, if you must know. And then it broke down in the lane that runs next to your estate, the one your garden gate goes out to. Because I wasn‘t too keen on spending the night in a malfunctioning car in the middle of nowhere, I got out - of the car, that is – and decided to go looking for some sign of civilization, like a house. Turns out I found one, only not one that has a telephone and is inhabited by Muggles.”

“Why would the Muggles matter?“ Malfoy asks, and Harry has to admit it‘s a sensible question.

“Because it‘s a Muggle car, and I have no idea how to fix it. I need a garage, and to find one, I need Muggles, preferably with a telephone. Unless you‘re secretly a mechanic.“

Malfoy‘s lips twist into a smile for the briefest of moments. “I‘m afraid not.“

“Thought as much.“

“And that’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s the whole story. Not much of a showstopper, like I said.”

Malfoy nods, seemingly lost in thought.

They sip on their drinks in silence for what must be several minutes, decidedly not looking at each other. Harry can feel the fog settle over his brain again. Maybe he is lucky and this fucked-up day has been tiring enough that he will be able to get a full night‘s sleep for a change. Wouldn‘t that be just brilliant?

Malfoy‘s voice pulls him out of his contemplation.

“– is five miles off. I‘m afraid the Muggles don‘t particularly like coming too close to the Manor, so I suppose you will have to go to them.“

Harry doesn‘t quite follow. “What, now?“

“Don‘t be daft Potter. I‘m not going to send you out in the rain again. I‘m talking about tomorrow morning. I thought you‘d prefer to sleep in a real bed tonight.“

“Err...“ Very eloquent, Harry thinks, really. “Yes?“ he tries again.

“Good.“ With a lot more vigour than Harry can muster at this time of night, Malfoy throws back the rest of his whisky and gets up. “Come along, then. And do try to keep up.“

 

***

 

Like everything at the Manor, the guest room is completely oversized – and nearly empty. Apart from the large, four-poster bed in the middle (at least twice the size of the one he had at Hogwarts), the only other two pieces of furniture are a giant wardrobe and a writing desk that looks like a dwarf in comparison. They are all made from some beautiful, dark and probably very expensive wood that is complimented well by the light grey colour of the curtains and the drapings of the bed, but gives the whole room a rather gloomy and sombre appearance that Harry has come to call _pure-blood aesthetic_. It’s not exactly his thing, even though he has learned to appreciate the effort.

Malfoy does his silent film eyebrow-raise again and drops the pile of linen that he has brought from a hallway cupboard on the bed. Harry, tiredness reducing him to semi-automatic movements, picks up a pillow and starts stuffing it into a pillowcase.

“What are you doing?” Malfoy asks, a note of curiosity in his voice. Harry looks up from his work, and of course the sceptic eyebrow, drawn up almost to his hairline, is still there, only it is now in the company of a faint, ironic smile.

“Making the bed,” Harry says, thinking that should be obvious. “What do you think?”

“That you obviously spent way too much time with your Muggle relatives. _This_ is how you make a bed.”

Malfoy pulls out his wand, swishes it through the air twice, and then twirls it with a flick of his wrist. The bed sheets suddenly develop a will of their own and wrap themselves neatly around the mattress while the duvet and remaining pillows glide into their covers a lot more neatly and quickly than Harry could have done by hand.

Harry is impressed, but he can’t let Malfoy know that. “Show-off!” he murmurs through the pillow he is pressing to his chest, just loud enough for Malfoy to hear. Then, his tired brain short-circuits and he throws the pillow at Malfoy before he can stop himself to consider whether or not this is a good idea.

Malfoy catches the feathery projectile with an elegant flick of his hand and shrugs, apparently completely unfazed. “I work in a hospital, Potter. It’s one of the first things you learn.“ He drops the pillow on the bed and walks over to the door. “Which reminds me – I really should be off to bed.”

Before Harry can reply, the dark, heavy door closes behind him with a dull thud. Harry stares at the empty air for several minutes before he manages to pull himself together enough to go groping around the floor for his overnight bag. He really needs to be in bed, preferably two hours ago. He undresses as quickly as his weariness allows him, pulls on one of the ratty old t-shirts he usually sleeps in, and is already half asleep when his head hits the pillow.

 


	2. The Magician, upright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suprise! New chapter! Turns out starting to publish this fic while on a three-month research trip on the other side of the planet wasn't such a brilliant idea. I should have known. (I mean, I sort of did.)
> 
> (In other news, I did plot out most of the fic and wrote several more chapters, so future updates will hopefully happen more frequently. I also gave up on the images of the tarot cards/chapter titles for the time being - mostly because I lack a reliable source for them. Let's see if I can fix this issue some time in the, hopefully not so distant, future.)

_The castle is dreary and cold and the low light of dusk fills everything with long shadows. Invisible draughts and sudden movements of stale, damp air fill the staircases and corridors he passes through, but other than that, there is no movement. The paintings that cover every wall are completely devoid of people, and so is the rest of the castle. He doesn’t meet a single living soul on any of the seven floors he climbs – and no dead one, either._

_He stops in front of a tapestry of a bare patch of grass that, like everything else, has no people in it. He vaguely remembers that there should be at least one person and probably a couple of trolls, but the details are a bit hazy and he can’t be bothered to spend any more effort on remembering them. Instead, he turns towards the door in the middle of a blank stretch of wall that he is sure hasn’t been there before. It does that, that door: Turning up just for him, whenever he needs it. Carefully, he takes a step closer, and another one. When he is almost close enough to touch it, the door swings open quite suddenly and of its own accord. It doesn’t scare him; he has seen the same thing happening a hundred times before. It’s just the magic of the room that knows when he is here and wishes to enter. With only a slight hesitation, he walks into the room beyond, drawn by some invisible force that tells him to go on._

_The room behind the vanishing door is gigantic; long and high like the nave of a cathedral, and entirely filled with broken things. There are paths in the debris, leading off into the distance. He turns to follow the one on the left hand side. There is some place he has to find, something he has to do, and he knows it is down that path. He has given up wondering how he knows this, or why he keeps coming back here. It doesn’t seem to make one ounce of a difference anyway._

_While he walks, his gaze travels over a vast array of objects, all broken, all stuffed in here to be forgotten. Old spell books and broomsticks. Broken furniture, bird cages and trunks that no longer close properly. A bust of a bearded warlock with a powdered wig and an ugly diadem on its head, chapped bottles, bunches of dried herbs and bent sneakoscopes._

_The old Vanishing Cabinet he has been looking for is broken, too. When he experimentally opens and closes the door a couple of times, the hinges creak softly, but otherwise nothing happens._

_He slowly walks around the cabinet once, twice, running his hands over its sides, as if that is going to help him figure out what is wrong. The welts and ridges of the rough wood scrape at the sensitive skin of his fingertips and leave splinters under his nails, but, unsurprisingly, the cabinet and the whole room around him stay as mute and unrelenting as ever. Neither of them seem to be willing to give up their secrets to someone who is barely scratching the surface._

_While he decides to give the circling another go, a sound catches his attention. It is quite similar to the creaking hinges of the cabinet, although slightly less metallic. A soft crackling and rustling that reminds him of hot drinks and winter evenings at the Manor. A sound that speaks of heat and consumption. It is a sound that should definitely not be here._

_Carefully, he takes a couple of steps away from the Vanishing Cabinet and down one of the lanes that part the mountains of debris, all the while running his hand over the various objects at the side of the path. It is probably not a wise thing to do, but he feels the need for physical reassurance that the sensory input can give him. When he passes a bend framed by tottering piles of chipped teacups, boxes full of fob watches in various stages of transfiguration, and a crate of bottles filled with a shimmering, milky white concoction, the sound of the fire gets louder. He is sure that that cannot be a good sign, and yet he seems unable to turn around and just get as far away as possible._

_Instead, he follows the path a little further, and just beyond the next bend, the light changes. Some of the dulled and broken mirrors that have collected in this part of the room have just enough glass left in them to reflect the low, orange glow of the approaching flames, and now he can also hear the brittle rustling and crackling of splintering wood. His fingers contract momentarily around the thing they’re currently touching – a chess piece, he thinks – and then he turns for what he thinks is the way out. His steps quicken, and so does his breathing as his lungs try to keep up with the pace of his racing heart._

_In passing, he catches a glimpse of his own reflection in a large, gild-framed mirror: pale, hollow-eyed and a lot younger than he should be. His younger self is also, curiously, standing still while he himself is almost running, and he is not alone. A shadow, slightly smaller than himself, is at his side, and while his face is not visible, he is sure that he would recognize that unruly mop of hair anywhere. For a second he wonders if the mirror image might possibly be worse than the flames, a mirage cooked up by his brain in the eye of his rising panic, but then he passes a bend and the mirror slips out of his sight._

_He knows he needs to turn right at the crossroads near the cabinet, but when he reaches the spot, there is no right turn. One of the paths leads off to the left, and the other one goes on straight ahead. Confused, he still doesn’t stop to think, but instead takes the passage that runs straight on, planning to take the next one to the right as soon as he can. He passes more furniture, stuffed animals and glass cases full of strange objects whose purpose he can’t fathom – none of which seem in the least familiar._

_Another fork appears shortly after the last, and yet again there is no right-hand turn. By now, his chest is aching with laboured breathing, and his heart beats way too fast. His hands are shaking, and he realizes he is still clutching the chess piece he picked up in the Alley of Mirrors. It’s the queen, a tiny woman with a stony crown, her face cradled in her hand, underlining her sad, thoughtful expression. She looks as if she is worried about him, and she has every right to be so. Around him, the rush of the fire is still getting louder, and when he passes around the next bend, he finds the path in front of him blocked by flames. They pool around the piles of old furniture, lick at old tapestries and spell books, and their tips are crowned with red and orange tongues, wild swirls that change shape and turn into dragons, serpents and other phantastic creatures. When he catches sight of the flames, they seem to flicker brighter, as if they recognised him. He doesn’t think, just turns around and scrambles back the way he came._

_Only it isn’t, not really._

_The path still looks very much the same, but it feels different somehow. He recognises some of the rubbish piled up at his sides – he has definitely seen that seven-armed candelabra before, and the ornate birdhouse looks familiar, too –, but other things are entirely foreign, and when he reaches the next fork, it doesn’t look at all how it is supposed to. Instead of the path going straight ahead and right, he now faces a wall and two aisles that lead him right and left. The one on the left has that erratic, orange glow of approaching fire to it, and when he turns around yet again, he realizes the same has happened to the passage he just came through. Heart jumping, he rushes through the archway of piled-up chairs on his right, only to be stopped by a roaring lion that breathes flames. A wave of hot air rushes towards him, lifting the fine strands of his hair off his damp forehead and making his eyes water._

_He jumps back, now panicking in earnest, his fingers clenching around the piece of stone in his left hand until the sharp edges of the Queen’s throne and crown cut into the soft flesh of his palm. The stab of pain is sharp and sudden, and helps him to focus enough to look for a way out of his predicament. As he rakes his eyes over the precarious piles of broken furniture, he realizes that there will only be one way: he will have to climb. He closes his eyes for one long, steadying breath, slides the chess figure into his pocket, and reaches for the first chair._

_The first fifteen feet are surprisingly easy. Whoever has constructed this dump of unwanted things has made a rather good job of piling them all up neatly, and he has little difficulty reaching the top of an ancient wardrobe that allows him to sit and catch his breath for a moment. The look down is what has him reeling._

_The fire has reached the foot of the mountain of broken furniture he is climbing, and what had once been a nondescript stone-flagged floor is now covered with a bubbling, warping mass of licking, dancing creatures that seem to be able to jump over several feet of yet untouched wood at a time. The flames dart upwards quite suddenly, and he has to draw back sharply to escape them, singeing his hair in the process. The putrid smell fills his nostrils for a moment, and it’s what spurs him on to go back to climbing. That and the heat, which is now getting unbearable._

_Under his fingers, scorched parchment and upholstery fabrics crumble to black, flaky dust that sticks to everything, and the varnish of the broken furniture he clings to starts warping. His hands already feel red and raw, but he clamps them around yet another splintered table leg, drawer or broken armchair with the stuffing sticking out. Once or twice, he accidentally touches some piece of hardware trimming and in the places where his fingers get in contact with the scorching metal the skin turns pink and starts blistering. Despite the pain and the aching heaviness in his limbs, he does not let go. He does not look down again, either._

_The muscles in his arms scream as he pulls himself onto another ledge, an old-fashioned drawer cabinet that sways precariously for a moment as he tries to find his balance. It does not drop, though, and for a second he closes his eyes and draws a couple of long, calming breaths. The hot air burns his lungs and he starts coughing. Carefully, he reaches up to brush away the tears because his eyes won’t stop watering – and that is when he sees it. A wall of fire, higher than the peak of the mountain of debris he is currently clinging to, rolling towards him like a giant wave of dancing flames and roaring dragons. The sound is deafening. The fire rushes and roars, gnaws and gnashes, devouring everything in its wake. Gone are the books, the birdcages and the sneakoscopes, and soon he will be gone, too. Because this time, no one is going to save him._

_Carefully, he pulls himself upright, his gaze fixed on the flames which are now on the same level as his face. He is shaking quite badly, his breath coming ragged and shallow, and he closes his fingers around the chess queen in his pocket to steady himself. Then, in one swift motion, he closes his eyes and steps over the edge. For a second, he feels like he’s suspended in mid-air, and then all of a sudden everything turns from gleaming, bright orange to pitch black._

***

When Draco opens his eyes, everything is still dark. His heart beats wildly as if he has run a mile. His pulse is throbbing in his fingers, and he feels light-headed and faint. When tries to take a breath, it catches in his throat, hoarse and dry from laboured breathing. He pushes himself upright because his body tells him that might help to get more air into his screaming lungs, but for the first moments he is shaking too badly for the change of position to have any effect. Only when he wraps his arms closely around his drawn-up knees and rests his forehead on them can he concentrate on the airflow. _Breathe_ , he tells himself. _Inhale. Exhale. Repeat_.

It seems to take ages. Ages in which his fingers cramp around his knees, boring into his sensitive skin, his muscles sizing up. Ages in which his eyes are pressed shut so violently that tears escape at their corners, and in which chapped lips brush against soft fabric. Ages in which he is all curled up on himself, his ragged breaths sounding far too much like dry sobs for his liking.

But finally, gradually, his heartbeat slows down and breathing becomes easier.

When he no longer feels like he might faint from any movement, Draco reaches out and gropes around his nightstand for his wand. It’s exactly where he placed it the night before, and he flicks it for a _Lumos_ , muttering the incantation under his breath. He should be able to do this non-verbally. Heck, he _knows_ he can, but right now he does not quite trust himself. It makes him feel like a twelve-year-old, lost and confused, and he doesn’t like it. Though, if he is quite honest, he was probably more lost at sixteen than at twelve. The thought threatens to make him spiral back into those dark places in his mind that he has kept locked up for so long, and he pushes it back down as forcefully as he can. Which is not all that forcefully, after all. Hoping it will help him brush off the unwanted thoughts more easily, he shakes his head violently a couple of times. The effect is marginal, but at least he is fully awake now. The tiny flame at the tip of his wand helps with that, too, and Draco focuses on the light while he awkwardly peels himself out of his bedsheets. They are damp and rumpled, and the way they have wrapped themselves around his limbs feels gross. A shiver runs down his back and Draco hates how brittle he feels, as if his body is going to shatter into a thousand pieces any minute, and his sanity with it.

At last he throws away the damp mess and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards are cold against his bare feet. The sensation grounds him, and he relishes the fact that this, at least, feels normal. Real. Which is good, because the rest of him doesn’t. Gripping his wand a little tighter, Draco mutters the incantation to light the candles, and follows it up by a _Tempus_ charm. The glowing numbers hover in the air for a moment before he makes them vanish with a flick of his hand. 5.57 am. Too early to be awake, but too late to go back to sleep. He sighs and carefully makes his way over to the French windows, pulling open the heavy curtains. It is still dark outside ( _of course_ it is, it’s six am in January, after all), but he nonetheless reaches for the doorknob and heads out on the balcony.

Cold air envelopes him like a blanket, creeping up the sleeves of his pyjamas. Goosebumps erupt all over his skin, and his face feels suddenly taut and fresh. After the heat of the fire in his dream, the sensation is not unwelcome. Draco takes a couple of long, deep breaths, and at last the feeling of being hunted dissipates.  

He heads back inside when he starts shivering, picks up his dressing gown and heads for the bathroom.

***

Draco spends a lot longer in the shower than strictly necessary. When the hot water starts gushing, he closes his eyes and runs his fingers over his face and through his hair once, twice, several times, washing away all the cold sweat and flakes of ash that aren’t really there. He feels dirty somehow, disturbed, and entirely caught off guard. He has had almost six years of peace – well, six years of equilibrium – and _now_ the dreams have to come back.

He is sure it’s Potter’s fault somehow, showing up on his doorstep all of a sudden. It has to be Potter’s fault, it always is. Unfortunately, blaming someone else is doing nothing for the knots in his stomach, and neither does it help to alleviate the nausea that has plagued him since waking up earlier. The hot water and the smell of his shower gel are a much better remedy for that, and Draco lets the scorching rivulets run over his skin until it has turned all pink and prickling. Only then does he get out, drying himself off rather roughly in the process.

The hot steam has misted the mirror, but Draco doesn’t need to see his face to brush his teeth, and perhaps it is better if he doesn’t, anyway. He is sure the dark circles under his eyes are back (they easily are if he loses sleep), and he can live without visible proof of his discomfort for a little longer. Back in his room, he dresses carefully, spending several minutes on picking out a shirt and a pair of tailored trousers. Not that it really matters, seeing that the only people that are going to see him in these for any extended amount of time are Potter and his mother, but he likes to know that he at least does not have to worry about the way he looks. Well, not about any part of his body except his face, obviously, because the circles are indeed back in place. He also needs a shave, but thankfully that can be fixed with a quick charm. _Another thing that Potter might do well to remember occasionally_ , his mind supplies quite uninvitedly. Frowning, Draco spells his hair dry and turns for the door when his gaze is caught by something on his desk.

Technically speaking, he knows it is there, because it has been for the last six years. Over time, the little chess queen has become part of the décor of his room, like the expensive set of writing utensils on this desk, the spell books spread over every possible surface, or the stuffy armchair in the corner. Unlike with any of these things, though, Draco has never quite forgotten that she is there. She is a reminder of where he has come from and what he has gone through, although he likes to think that that is not who he is now. The dream has made him question that assumption, and so, in a momentary impulse, he picks up the figure and slips it into his trouser pocket. The familiar weight is comforting, and it reminds him that despite everything his subconscious cooks up to make him believe otherwise, he is no longer his seventeen-year-old self.

With that in mind, he balls his hands into fists for a second, squares his shoulders and leaves to see if Potter is up yet.

***

To his surprise, Potter indeed seems to be among the living because when Draco knocks softly on the guest room door, he earns a muffled _enter_ in return. (Merlin, please let him be dressed.)

Potter, it turns out, is sitting cross-legged on his bed, studying the paper – fully dressed, thank Merlin. He also looks slightly less ruffled than the evening before and his hair is damp, which suggests he has been in contact with a shower. “Morning”, he murmurs when he recognizes Draco. 

“And to you, too,” Draco replies. When Potter makes no further move, he adds: “Is that my morning paper?” It’s probably not the smoothest conversation starter, but he is genuinely curious, and it is as good a way as any to keep his mind from questioning since when he and Potter are on good enough terms to wish each other a good morning. Though, admittedly, neither of them have used the term _good_ so far.

Potter seems to have taken his question as a rebuke and he does look rather sheepish when he answers. “Yeah, I’m afraid it is. I woke early and your house-elf was kind enough to provide this to keep me occupied.” He folds up the paper awkwardly – and completely wrong.

Still feeling slightly off course, Draco just manages to stop himself from saying as much. Instead, he takes the _Prophet_ from Potter when offered, and follows up the gesture by a nonchalant (he hopes) “Do you care for breakfast?”

That is obviously not what Potter expected. Draco can tell by the way he hunches his shoulders and runs his hand through the hair at the back of his head, mussing it up beyond all hope. Seriously, for someone who has been called the Saviour of the Wizarding World more times than he can count, Potter is remarkably awkward. It would be endearing if it didn’t make having a conversation so damn hard.

Like now, when he stammers “Err, sure.” Only to follow it up by “But are you sure that your mother–“

Draco sighs inwardly, trying not to let his exasperation show on his face.

“Potter, it is barely seven in the morning,” he says reasonably. “My mother is still asleep. And besides, she likes to take breakfast in her room. No, I’m afraid it’s just you and me. Unless you have other plans, that is.”

“Like what?” Potter asks, scepticism colouring his voice and a frown firmly in place.

“You could always leave, I suppose.” He really is making this way too easy.

At that, a grin steals itself on Potter’s face. That is new. Or maybe not, but so far Draco has never been on the receiving end of one. He can’t help but feel a tiny bit proud of himself.

“And miss out on a perfectly good breakfast? No way!”

So, breakfast with Potter it is, then. He is sure the day can’t get any weirder than that.

***

Once Potter is on his way, with a description of how to get to the nearest village and hopefully enough common sense to remember that he is a wizard, Draco floos into work. It is still early, but it’s not like he has anything better to do, and the dream and his run-in with Potter have left him with a sour feeling that he would rather not dwell upon.

He dusts himself off as he steps out of the grate, crosses the small anteroom with a couple of long, measured strides, and passes out into the entrance hall. Predictably enough, the hospital is still fairly empty, a fact for which Draco is grateful, even though he probably would not admit it.

There is an old man with ghastly, purple boils all over his face, chatting to Helen at the reception counter, and youngish woman, hair dishevelled and eyes puffy from losing too much sleep, who tries to entertain a toddler by making colourful bubbles spout out of her wand. The girl, her daughter by the looks of it, seems to be more interested in picking at the seat of the waiting room chair she is squatting on, poking her plump, little fingers into the holes in the frayed fabric. Draco tries not to shake his head at the two of them in passing. They are yet another proof for how much Draco can’t see the appeal of children. Not that that is going to be an issue any time soon, but he still can’t help giving the matter some thought occasionally. It’s probably one of the things too ingrained from years of pureblood breeding to shake at will. And yet another thing on the list of things he hates thinking about.  

Attempting to return to the matter at hand ( _Work_ , he reminds himself, _not potential family issues that might never become relevant._ ), Draco sends a friendly nod in Helen’s direction as he passes for the stairs. “Good morning, Helen.”

She looks over from her conversation with the old man and beams at him. “A good one to you, too, Healer Malfoy!”

It is odd, but the address still makes Draco smile. Maybe it’s because it makes him feel like he has a purpose, a tiny part in his life that has not been shaken up by old memories and his strange run-in with Potter. A tiny part of his life that is not bland or murky, and that he actually likes.

As he heads to the fourth floor, he firmly pushes any thought on either Potter or the last couple of hours to the back of his mind and closes the door on them. They go very well with anything else that is buried in there, ready to be taken out and examined when he has the energy and leisure to do so (probably never), and in no position to interfere with the work at hand.

Draco changes into his lime-green Healer robes in the tiny staff room that is squeezed in between the staircase and a broom cupboard at the end of the corridor. He is just about to make himself a cup of tea when Healers Boot and Smith stumble through the door.

“Oh, you’re early. Good.” Terry looks the way Draco feels (bone-tired), and he drops into one of the cheap, plastic chairs rather ungraciously. He yawns widely and gestures towards Draco’s cup in a feeble attempt at indicating that he, too, would like some tea.

Draco graciously decides to understand the hint, and when he shoots a glance at Deborah, who has taken the chair across from Boot, she nods and mouths _please_. He summons two more teacups from the drying rack, drops teabags into them, adds hot water from the kettle and levitates them over to the table.

“Why is that good?” he asks as he sits down, folding his hands around the warm cup. “Milk’s out, I’m afraid.”

“Ugh,” Deborah groans and starts ladling sugar into her tea. “Barbaric.”

“Quite,” Boot agrees. “Mostly it’s good because you’re here to make us tea. But also because we’ve been up all night with another one of these crazy spell accidents. This one looks quite nasty, actually. I’m sure Healer Wilson will want you to have a look at it later.”

“Why, what happened?” Draco asks as he reaches for the sugar bowl. Deborah is right; while the tea is merely unpleasant at best when spiked with both milk and sugar, without either it tastes downright vile.

“See,” Boot says, “that’s the thing we don’t know. The guy’s about forty, father of three and married to a Muggle. His wife called the medics, the _Muggle_ medics at about half past three this morning because her husband was having what appeared to be a bad fit in their living room. Why he was even up at such an ungodly hour only Merlin knows, but the point is that nothing the Muggle medics did made the least of a difference, which is why he got transferred to us as soon as someone higher up at St. Bart’s remembered that we exist. Thing is, we have no idea what hit him, and there’s likely going to be repercussions, too, with Muggles and the Aurors involved…” He lets his sentence peter out as he takes a swig of his tea.

“What have the Aurors got to do with it?” Draco asks, not sure if he’s following. So far, only half of Boot’s story makes any sense, but he hopes that is due to his colleague’s tiredness and not to the nature of the story itself.

“Got called in when we figured it was a curse accident, didn’t they?” Deborah explains. “Apparently it’s standard procedure for Improper Use of Magic people to fix this kind of thing, but the wife was in tears claiming her husband had been attacked, and so this went a little higher up. It’s all a big mess, especially since they seem to think we have to review the other curse cases, too.”

“Because they think there might be a connection?” Draco thinks the whole thing is slowly beginning to make some sense. “You know, come to think of it, it’s not that far-fetched, is it?” Now that he gives the matter some attention, his mind seems to like running with the idea. It’s certainly better than turning the same memories of his dream and Potter over in his head for the umpteenth time. Enticed by this new challenge, Draco puts down his tea to have his hands free for thinking. He isn’t entirely sure why, but they seem to be part of the ordering process.

“I mean, it _is_ weird that five people seem to be struck by mystery spells in as many weeks when we have had one or two cases not nearly half as bad over the last six months,” he admits after a moment of consideration.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Boot counters. “It’s what the Aurors said, too.”

Draco isn’t sure he understands. “Who is Sherlock?”

“Sherlock Holmes, famous fictional consulting detective and part-time alchemist, based on the author’s own boss at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, Joseph Bell, an accomplished healer and warlock. The eponym of investigation, if you so wish. Please tell me you haven’t slept through _History of Magic_   like everyone else? That, or you really need to spend more time with Muggles.”

Boot is obviously enjoying himself, and Draco can’t really blame him. After all, he doesn’t often get the chance to show off his non-magical knowledge, which certainly is a lot more extensive than his own. Not that that is very hard, but still. He really has to learn not to begrudge other people their little triumphs. It’s hard work, though, and he doesn’t always succeed.

“And he is relevant, how exactly?”

“Only marginally,” Boot admits, but he doesn’t seem to be put off by the tiny sting in Draco’s voice. “The point is, we’ll have to repeat all our diagnostic spells, probably do some more, and scan for any similarities that might have been overlooked before. See if there’s a pattern, or a common denominator in the magical traces of the curses. Anything of that sort.”

“Oh, and someone will have to explain to the Aurors why, up until now, we missed that there might be a connection between the cases.” Deborah adds. “Which is probably going to be you.”

“Why me?” Draco asks, though he suspects he knows the answer.

“A: because you’re good at talking.” She smiles and he thinks it’s supposed to be encouraging. It’s not working. “And B: because you’re on the day shift, and Terry and I are off in fifteen minutes. But I’m sure Healer Wilson will fill you in on all that.” She gleefully finishes her tea while Draco gloomily stares into the depths of his half-empty cup. With his luck, she’s probably one hundred percent correct, and then some.

***

As Draco soon finds out, Deborah’s predictions are spot-on once again. Why she hasn’t gone for a career in Divination is a mystery to him, unless you count the fact that the pay at St. Mungo’s is probably lengths better.

Healer-in-Charge Phyllis Wilson looks in at the staff room about five minutes after Boot and Deborah have left, and she does indeed fill him in on _all that_ , and even a little more. They spend the better part of an hour going over the most recent case, and when they finish their briefing, Draco is left with a rough timeline of last night’s events and a clear set of instructions for next steps he is to follow in the investigation.

They include him re-reading all the patient files and looking for similarities, so that is what he does once he is done with his rounds. Despite his better judgement, Draco makes himself another cup of tea and starts flipping through the files Healer Wilson has send over from administration. Not that he hasn’t read most of them at least once before, seeing that he wrote some of them himself. And not that it turns up much. The four curse victims, as he has come to call them in his head, have barely anything in common. They are all witches and wizards, but that is as far as the similarities go. Geographically, they hail from all over Britain and even Ireland, their ages span about sixty years, and they have such diverse jobs as shopkeeper in Diagon Alley, lowlevel Ministry employee, advice column writer, and housewife.

From what their diagnoses have shown so far, the different curses don’t seem very similar, either. No matter how many times he reads the relevant passages in the patient files, Draco can not make himself see any links between what are essentially four completely different spells based on a number of sometimes incompatible basal laws of magic. He guesses they will have to devote some serious time to re-evaluating their previous assessments, now that the Aurors seem to see a connection between the five cases. How they are going to go about that, Draco isn’t sure.

At precisely 12.34 pm, he gives up on what is essentially a useless exercise in paper turning and heads out for a quick lunch. Healer Wilson knows he takes his break around this time, the ward is practically empty except for their five (sedated) mystery patients, and he doesn’t feel too bad about taking fifteen or twenty minutes to himself. He doesn’t bother with changing into Muggle clothes. Most of the customers frequenting the little café just around the corner from the visitors’ entrance are hospital employees anyway, and while Draco isn’t one hundred percent certain, he _thinks_ the owner might be a Squib. That or he has simply gotten used to having people in weird clothes in his shop. Be that as it may, fact is he doesn’t bat an eye as Draco orders the soup of the day and a strong coffee. The tea here is only marginally better than at the hospital and he suspects he is going to have more of that today than he cares to think about.

When his order is ready, Draco picks up his tray and squeezes into a tiny booth near the large front window. A number of people nod politely when he catches their eyes as he passes, but none of them gets up and comes over to keep him company. Draco doesn’t mind having lunch on his own, and by now his colleagues have given up on asking him about the hows and whys. On the rare occasion when he and Boot or Deborah are on the same shift, he enjoys their company, but mostly he keeps himself to himself.

He is halfway through his second cup of coffee when Healer Wilson’s Patronus interrupts his lunch break. She calls all personnel back to the ward for an emergency, and Draco is already through the door when the shining, silvery jackal vanishes. He can hear at least one other person running behind him. Healer-in-Training Price gives him a thumbs up when they head through the Hospital entrance, and side by side they sprint to the fourth floor. She’s a pretty girl with freckles and a mop of brown curls (pretty if you liked girls, that is), and when they reach _Spell Damage_ , she’s panting. Draco is momentarily relieved to find that his physical condition, though threatened by years of relative inactivity, is apparently still better than hers, but when they enter the ward, any thought on the matter is pushed from his mind.

The scene before him is not one of particular horrors, but it still calls for immediate action. At the center of the room three nurses are curretly trying to secure a woman in her early forties who is thrashing around wildly in their containment charms. She has her head thrown back in a scream but no sound comes out of her mouth, and her face is contorted in what is most likely excruciating pain. The stasis charms the nurses are applying don’t seem to be working, and right now all they can do is hold her suspended in the air by a levitation charm.

Healer Wilson is there, too, standing a little apart from the nurses, firing off a sequence of diagnostic charms. Draco recognizes lavender-coloured pain detectors (flaring up wildly and from almost every part of the patient’s body), butter-yellow vital functions-checks (still in range, thank Merlin), and baby blue mental monitors. He walks over to Wilson and picks up the patient file, setting the Quick Notes Quill to work. The he shoots a glance at Wilson.

“Try whatever comes to your mind to stop this,” she orders. “So far, nothing has worked, and any ideas would be welcome." Draco nods and goes to work.

***

They work tirelessly for over an hour. At last Healer Wilson manages to stabilize their patient with a well-aimed freezing charm; not the most elegant or pleasant solution, but the first one that actually seems to be working. They all take a deep breath before they carefully levitate the patient over to the ward with the other curse victims and adjust the monitoring charms to make sure she is as comfortable as someone can be whose body has been frozen in place and is being kept alive by a delicate string of spellwork. They will have to work on a more permanent solution soon, but for now at least they have gained a short respite.

Wilson sends the nurses off into their well-earned break, but before Draco can follow them, she calls him over to her office. Ah yes, the thing with the Aurors. It seems Deborah was right about that part of the story as well. Draco closes the door behind himself and waits for the inevitable.

“Please.” Healer Wilson motions towards the hard-back chair in front of her desk and sets the kettle to work.

Draco accepts both the invitation to sit and the tea she offers him. Unfortunately, she gets her supplies from the same stock as the rest of the hospital, but at least she has milk and sugar on offer.

She takes her time getting settled behind her desk and Draco tries his best not to appear impatient.

At last, she rests her mug on her thigh and fixates him over the rim of her glasses.

“I’m sure you have heard that our latest curse victim – well, second to latest as of one-thirty this afternoon – has caused us some trouble with the Auror Department.”

Draco doesn’t think it makes sense to deny his awareness of the problem, and besides, Wilson knows he has figured out more than half of what is going on already. In fact, she seems to be relying on him being quick on the uptake. “Healers Boot and Smith did tell me something along those lines, yes.”

She nods approvingly. “Then I’m sure they have also told you that the Auror Department wants to be kept up to date with any developments regarding the patients currently in our care. Including any progress we make with identifying the curses used. Or any possible connections between the patients.”

Draco nods. “That seems reasonable enough, given the circumstances.”

“Quite. Well, I want you to be our liaison with the Aurors.” _And that_ , Draco thinks, _is exactly what I hoped wouldn’t happen_. Because the Auror Department would mean Weasley and Potter, and probably a number of other unpleasant people he has tried very hard to avoid over the last couple of years.

“Just out of curiosity,” he can’t help asking, “why me?”

Wilson smiles and Draco is convinced that she doesn’t feel one iota of remorse about her decision. “Because you have treated most of the other curse patients so far. And you have a way with Ministry people.”

 _Meaning I can keep them away so you and the rest of the staff can do your work_ , Draco thinks.

“Fair enough,” he says and drains his teacup. Wilson gives him a smile, and with that Draco gets up and goes back to work.  


	3. The Star, reversed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, in which Harry wastes a day and doesn't have his life together. Almost like me.  
> (Sorry for the slow updates; the PhD is still happening and keeping me busy. This is one more archive trip later, btw.)
> 
> [Edit: I made some minor corrections, mostly because I can't count. It's SIX victims, of course.]

Harry thinks he is running for a spot on “The Worst Day of Your Life”, a competition he has not agreed to enter. Nevertheless, he has at least made it to the semi-final - final, even, depending on how the rest of his day goes. Which is interesting, really, considering he grew up with the Dursleys and has already died once.

From the way he is looking at it now, at exactly seventeen minutes past one pm, the breakfast at Malfoy Manor was the best part of the day so far. It also happens to be the only food he has seen since eight in the morning, and that’s definitely not helping his mood. Which, when considered objectively, is probably still better than that of his boss.

Because Harrison is fuming. It’s one of the first things Harry finds out when he finally shows up at the Auror department after an ordeal that involved a march over soggy fields and a stile – a _bloody stile!_ – a horse-drawn cart, and several miles of driving just above the speed limit. On the upside, he was already in a temper when Harry arrived, so at least it’s not any of his fault. On the downside, being several hours late certainly won’t help with getting into Harrison’s good books.

The reason for Harrison’s temper, however, has not yet become clear to Harry. Right now, the Head of the Auror Office is bellowing at one of the junior Aurors, and the only reason why Harry doesn’t catch every single word that’s being spoken is because his office door is actually closed. Harry is pretty sure he is going to have a go at him, too, as soon as he finds out he’s here. Harrison never misses a chance to cut him down to size after all; Harry suspects it’s his way of side-stepping accusations of special treatment. Not that it’s working.

He tries to make his way over to his cubicle as stealthily as possible and mostly succeeds. Several people nod at him in greeting, but he does meet a couple of raised eyebrows as well. He ignores them, even though there is probably going to be talk anyway. If he’s lucky, Ron has kept the bingo cards somewhere. Who knows whether it will be his private life – or lack thereof –, his supposed special treatment because he is the Saviour of the Wizarding World (capital letters courtesy of George Weasley), or his abysmal success rate this time?

Ron looks up from his paperwork when Harry flops down in the chair opposite of him.

“You picked the worst day for being late. Really, _the worst_.”

Harry can’t help but smile wryly. “You know, I figured. What’s going on?”

Ron shrugs, shuffling his papers around aimlessly. From the way he leans back in his chair, Harry gathers that he’s not too fussed about being interrupted. After all, Ron hates paperwork just as much as Harry does.

“No idea, mate. Something about St. Mungo’s; that’s all I know.”

Harry leans forward. “The hospital? What on earth have we got to do with that?”

Ron shrugs again and dives under his desk to pull something from one of the lower drawers. His voice is muffled as he answers.

“I'd be cursed if I know. But someone must have messed up big time. Harrison has been in a strop all morning. Cauldron cake?” Unfolding his lanky frame, he offers Harry a slightly squashed, but otherwise perfectly edible piece of cake. Harry takes it gratefully.

“Thanks,” he murmurs through a mouthful.

“You know, I think there’s still tea in the kitchen, but that would lead you too close to the lion’s den, I guess.”

“Nah,” Harry swallows. “Thanks. I’ll pass.”

“Good choice,” Ron concedes, munching on his own piece of cake. “Harrison has been yelling himself hoarse for the better part of an hour, you know.”

Harry makes another noncommittal noise, trying to sound as commiserating as possible. As long as he’s not the target of Harrison’s ire, he doesn’t care too much about what has brought on the explosion. He knows he probably should, but it feels too much of an effort. Particularly after the morning he’s just had.

His stay at Malfoy Manor must have been among the most surreal experiences of the last couple of years. Despite the abysmal rain and the disaster that was Hermione’s malfunctioning car, the night hadn’t actually been all that bad. Sure, the Manor was still creepy as hell, but Malfoy himself had been surprisingly civil, and of course the breakfast had been excellent. The four hours that followed not so much, but that hadn’t been anyone’s fault in particular. And now he is stuck here in an office with a yelling boss, a bunch of co-workers, half of whom think he’s not pulling his weight, and a job he feels less than enthusiastic about. The urge to bang his head against his desk is strong right now. Instead, he lets himself slump forward until his forehead meets the table top with a dull thud.

“Harry?”, Ron’s voice, coloured by a tinge of worry, cuts through his thoughts like a shard of glass. “You ok, mate?”

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, not bothering to move. “Just tired. I had a weird night. And morning. Make that a weird fifteen hours at least.”

“Err…” Ron sounds undecided. “Care to elaborate?”

Harry attempts a weak shrug and lifts his head enough to push his arms under his chin.

“Hermione’s car randomly stopped working in the middle of nowhere.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And did you end up sleeping in a ditch or what?”

For a split second Harry considers just skipping over the part of the story that’s bound to follow, or make something up on the go. But knowing his memory and mental capacities right now, he’d probably forget half of his story come dinner time – and while a makeshift lie might satisfy Ron’s curiosity for the time being, he doubts it would stand up to Hermione’s more inquisitive mind. The truth, then, or as close to the truth as he can get.

“I ended up sleeping at Malfoy Manor.”

Ron inhales whatever is left of his cauldron cake and spends several minutes coughing. Harry makes no movement to help him, but he holds back on his story until Ron is no longer actively suffocating.

“You did _what_?” Ron wheezes, eyes streaming.

“I stayed overnight at Malfoy Manor. Turns out Hermione’s car not working was actually the fault of Malfoy’s wards. It was fine once I got it out of there this morning.”

Ron considers this for a moment before his attention is drawn back to the most obvious question at hand. Of course. He might not be as openly rationally inclined as Hermione, but he can still be a dog on a chase once he’s found a mystery worth pursuing.

“You do realise you could have apparated, don’t you?”

“I hate apparating,” Harry mumbles into the sleeve of his jumper.

“Yeah,” Ron concedes. “But you could have.”

“I promised Hermione I’d return the car.”

“Hermione can live without that car for a day. And besides, why on earth was it so important you drive, anyway?”

“I needed time to think.” The more Harry tries to explain his reasoning, the more it sounds like an excuse – or a line of very faulty logic. And just like Ron to pick up on that immediately. _Damn._

“ _Merlin_ , Harry. You could have gone for a walk. Like most people do.”

“Look, I know you hate driving. I don’t. It’s quite –“ Calming? Not quite. Contemplative? Too Professor Trelawney. “Anyway. I like it. It helps me think.”

Harry can tell Ron isn’t quite buying that explanation, but it’s the best he can do right now.

Ron gives him a shrewd look, then he sits up a little straighter. “Right. Last question. Why on earth were you in the vicinity of bloody Malfoy Manor in the first place?”  

“I got lost.” Harry says simply. It’s not even a lie. “I took a wrong turn. I missed an exit. Whatever. Something of that sort, anyway. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Ron narrows his eyes, and Harry knows what is coming.

Lately, Hermione and Ron have gotten it into their heads that something is wrong with him, and they’ve been collecting proof ever since. It usually comes with a good deal of worried tutting on Hermione’s part, sideways looks and silent offerings of food on Ron’s, and the occasional interrogation session over dinner. Harry has learned to side-step most of their attempts at tricking him into talking about what Hermione calls his “issues” (there are no bloody issues!), but sometimes he is too exhausted to bother with making up cover stories and goes for a semi-truth approach instead. Like now, even though Ron looks obviously concerned.

He opens his mouth, supposedly with another question, but he never gets that far because at that moment, Harrison’s door bangs open and the Chief Auror himself appears in the doorframe.

“Saunders, Lawson, Weasley – my office, if you please. And make it quick!”

His eyes rake over the room, and when Ron jumps up almost guiltily, brushing cake crumbs off his uniform, Harrison’s gaze lands on Harry.

“Mr Potter. Glad you could make it.” His voice has an icy ring to it that assures Harry that he most certainly is not in his boss’s good books right now. Quite probably he isn’t even in them at all. Still, Harry manages to pull himself together enough to sit up a little straighter. Not enough to fake eagerness or even enthusiasm, but hopefully enough not to wear his disenchantment with the daily life at the Auror Office on his sleeve. Leaning back in his chair in what he hopes is a laid-back, professional manner, Harry watches as his colleagues trot over to Harrison’s office. He is just about to truly relax when Harrison, hand on the doorknob, sends him another scorching look.

“You too, Potter!” he barks. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. After all, the gods that be have just handed him a chance not to fuck up this day completely, and he is most certainly going to take it.

 

***

 

Unsure about where exactly he stands with his boss right now, Harry hangs back at the door of the office while his colleagues crowd around Harrison’s desk. The Chief Auror has the knack of never offering anyone a seat, ever, and in fact there is only one hard-backed chair for visitors anyway. Harry wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole, even if offered.

Harrison’s anger, it turns out, is not directed at anyone in particular – unless you count the poor junior Auror who drew the short straw and had to fill in the Head Auror about the events of the previous night. She was only in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Harry feels a touch of pity for her. At a closer look, Harrison seems to be particularly angry about the fact that the Healers at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries have apparently failed to realise that they currently have several patients in their care who might well be the victims of the same madman throwing around hexes and curses like there is no tomorrow. Or something of that sort, anyway. It’s not exactly easy to follow Harrison’s explanations when you’re tired and have missed half of the fun already.

Harry is pulled out of his reverie when someone says his name. It’s not Harrison, which confuses him momentarily.

“… and then Auror Potter and yourself catch up with the healers?” It’s Saunders speaking, which explains Harry’s confusion, but not why she’s doing the delegating in the first place.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Ron agrees, and to Harry’s surprise he sees Harrison nodding along. “Harry?”

“Errr.” _Shit_. So much for missing half the fun. And missing all of the question, apparently.  

“You and me, talking to the healers while Aurors Saunders and Lawson check out the poor bugger’s house?”

“Sure.” It’s not like Harry has any preferences, or more than perfunctory knowledge to base his decision on, anyway.

“Very well.” Harrison, much more peaceable than earlier, rubs his hand like an overenthusiastic uncle at Christmas, a gesture that reminds Harry far too much of Vernon Dursley to be in any way pleasant.

“Right then, gentlemen – madam.” Harrison nods towards Auror Saunders in a way that makes her curl her lip as if she has caught some nasty smell. “I suggest you meet with Junior Auror Malik so she can fill you in on the events of last night. Off you go.”

Off they go indeed, the other Aurors in search of Junior Auror Malik, and Harry and Ron over to their desks.

“Don’t you think we should have gone with the others to find Amani?” Harry asks when Ron shows no signs of doing just that.

“We will, in a minute. Let me pick up something first. And _you_ should probably put on your robes, you know.”

Harry supposes he is right. While he doesn’t mind being in jeans and jumper all day, he can see how that might look slightly unprofessional to anyone they have to talk to on official Auror business. If he’s lucky, the spare pair of robes he has tucked away in the closet in the tea kitchen is still wearable.

 

As it turns out, the robes in question have a suspicious dark stain about the size of his palm just above his ankle, but are otherwise in tolerable condition. Unfortunately, neither _Scourgify_ nor _Tergeo_ do the trick, and as that is about as far as Harry’s ability with cleaning spells goes, he has no other option than to put them on the way they are. Because apparating home for his better pair and hoping that Kreacher, who shows up randomly about once every second week to make sure he hasn’t died under an avalanche of unwashed dishes and laundry, has miraculously cleaned them lately, is definitely not an option.

Ron walks in when Harry has just managed to tangle himself in way too much fabric, and Harry can hear him snorting even though his head is currently stuck halfway up what he believes to be a sleeve.

“Shut it!” he manages through a mouthfull of fabric, and Ron is kind enough not only to heed his request, but also help him to untangle himself. Together they trot off in search of Auror Malik and her superior knowledge about the events of last night.

 

***

 

When Harry and Ron walk into the St. Mungo’s reception room at half past three, it is crammed. The most obvious contenders for their attention are several cajoling children, playing a rat-race around the waiting chairs, and an old warlock with a nasty-looking burn on one arm and a slightly smoking _thing_ that looks like a cross between a chicken and a lizard under the other. Harry is glad he’s not part of Magical Creatures because he’s pretty sure breeding lizards with chicken is illegal. A number of other, less noisy but obviously equally suffering patients are strewn over several chairs and corners of the room. An old man with ugly, violet boils on his face is chatting animatedly to the Reception Witch, and a faint smell of lavender and soap fills the air. _Cleaning spells_ , Harry thinks, _the deep-scouring kind_. The smell grates on his nerves, and so does the noise – and he’s only been here for five minutes. Half of the day is already over, and yet it still manages to get worse. At least they don’t have to ask their way around much; he should be grateful for that.

As soon as she spots their Auror robes, the Reception Witch politely interrupts her conversation with the gentleman with the boils and beckons them over.

“You gentlemen here for the curse business?”

When Ron nods in the affirmative, she adds: “Someone will be down for you in a bit, but I’m afraid they’re all awefully busy up at Spell Damage. I hope you don’t mind a wait? I could get you a cup of tea if you’d like?”

“That would be brilliant, actually,” Ron says. “We’ll wait over there, if that’s alright with you.” He points at two chairs, tucked away in the corner and half-hidden by a gigantic potted plant. Harry hopes they are out of the way of the racing children. When they head over to their seats, Ron throws Harry a sidelong glance and grins apologetically.

“Sorry I did all the talking without asking you, but you look like you’d like to throttle someone and I’d rather not risk that.”

Harry smiles wryly, and maybe a tiny bit self-deprecatingly. “Yeah, I don’t think another incident would help my career prospects. Let’s just sit down and hope we can get this over with soon. Maybe we’re lucky and the tea is good.”

 

***

 

As it turns out, the tea is abysmal. The Reception Witch does get them two cups about fifteen minutes into their wait, but it’s lukewarm and tastes watery and slightly soapy. Even copious amounts of sugar and milk won’t do the trick, and Harry only downs his cup because he really starts getting tired. Besides he’d much rather have this done and over with, and the tea is the only thing giving him a sense of achievement that’s currently available. Ron gives up after a few, hesitant sips, and Harry thinks he’s probably the wiser of the two of them.

Unfortunately, the wait also doesn’t only take “a bit”. In fact, it turns out significantly longer than that. As the fingers of the large clock over the reception desk tick on towards evening, Harry feels himself getting antsy again. He hates being stuck in one place, always has, and a hospital waiting room is probably one of the worst places to be stuck in. He jumps up when he notices he’s been playing with one of the buttons of his robe for more than five minutes (Ron has started giving him _looks_ again) and excuses himself to go in search of the bathroom.

The trip takes him a grand total of about ten minutes max, which is really nothing compared to his growing restlessness and annoyance. When he gets back to the reception area, Ron is still waiting exactly where he left him. It’s not encouraging.

Harry sits down, shifts around in his seat, stands up again and arranges his Auror robes, all while exactly _nothing_ happens. Ron gives him a pitiful look, and Harry buries his face in his hands.

After the morning, mostly spent hurrying around and trying to get to London in time, this waiting around is like an evil twin: undesired idleness, the bane of everyone with too many unpleasant things to think about. Especially if one has put off thinking about the said unpleasant things for far too long anyway.

He tries his best not to, and, picking up a month-old issue of _Witch Weekly_ , leafs through the magazine aimlessly. His attention is momentarily caught by an article about Ginny’s recent success with the _Holyhead Harpies_ , but unfortunately it seems to be more about her private life than about Quidditch. He really should have expected this. Even after years none of his friends’ brushes with the media ever seem to go by without at least one question along the lines of “ _Now, tell me, what is it like to date Harry Potter?“_ or “ _Is Harry Potter really such a grump over dinner?“_ Thankfully, Ginny is a good sport and usually comes up with the most ridiculous answers, and Ron and Hermione point blank ignore anything that so much as involves Harry’s name.

He is pulled out of his reverie (and momentary gratefulness for the loyalty of his friends) by Ron shifting around in his seat. He pulls out his fob watch, checks the time and sighs tragically before going back to mindlessly staring into space. Harry goes back to flipping through his magazine, but the spectacle repeats itself two times, and finally he snaps: “What?“

Ron looks a bit sheepish and grins apologetically.

“Look, mate. This seems like it’s going to take a while. Do you think you could do me a favour?” Harry thinks he knows where this conversation is headed, but for want of anything better to do, he asks the obvious questions anyway.

“Is this you asking me to do the meetup with the curse expert on my own because you have promised Hermione you’d be home before ten for a change?” It’s a gross overestimation (it’s only twenty to seven, after all), but his optimism has died a slow and painful death by now.

Ron’s grin has definitely taken a turn for the worse, too. Now it no longer looks sheepish, but downright painful, rather as if his features have been frozen in place. Harry knows it’s one of the things Hermione finds endearing, though he can’t quite see the appeal.

“Err, something of the sort?” Ron says. Harry thinks he’s trying to soften the blow, although they both know what’s coming.

He shrugs. “Go ahead. It’s not like my day can get any worse. Who knows, maybe they’re nice and good-looking?”

“And open for a date with the Saviour of the Wizarding World? Good luck with that, mate.”

“Thanks. I guess I’m gonna need it.“

Ron laughs and gives him a thumbs up as he gets up. “Probably.“ And then, more seriously, “Thanks. I owe you one. Dinner or something.“

“At the very least,“ Harry says by way of goodbye, and Ron heads for the exit.

 

***

 

The positive thing is, the next person that Harry talks to is indeed good-looking. The downside is that he is only the nurse sent down from Spell Damage to fetch him (at exacly 7.27 pm, four hours after he first set foot in the hospital). He also seems tired and disinterested in anything but the bare minimum of talking that might be required from him. _Probably eager to go home_ , Harry thinks, and he can’t blame him. Somehow, he is still disappointed.

Nurse Bell, for that is what the sleep-deprived nurse had introduced himself as, drops Harry off at a tiny tea kitchen, crammed into a corner of the ward by what is most likely an extension spell (there is no way _anything_ can fit between the staircase and the broom cupboard). Then he instructs him to wait a little longer and shuffles out before Harry has time to ask any more questions. Not that he can think of any except “ _Why the hell do you think you can keep me waiting for four hours straight?_ “, but he would like to at least be given the chance to vent his anger. This way, he is stuck staring at the colourful specks in the cheap plastic-covered table top. He is gleefully picking at what seems to be a burn hole, a small piece of table where the plastic is all warped and peeling off, when he hears footsteps coming down the corridor. Something in the rushed but careful movements and the sound of expensive shoes clicking on the linoleum floors sounds familiar, though he is not sure how.

A moment later the mystery is solved when the tall, lean and pointy figure of Draco Malfoy appears in the doorframe.

He should have expected this; with everything going on today, he really should have.

Yet, somehow, he’s still surprised and caught off guard. Before he can stop himself, he finds himself blurting out: “ _You_? _You’re_ the curse expert?”

Malfoy throws him a cool and calculating look, then crosses over to the table and pulls a chair out to sit down opposite Harry. He folds his hands on the table top (longfingered, slender hands), takes a long, deep breath and looks up at Harry. Only then does he answer the question. 

“I’m not the only one. But, yes, for all intents and purposes, I am indeed the curse expert.” His voice is calm and polite, but there is a certain hardness underneath that tells Harry he’s not exactly pleased to see him, either. That or Harry has managed to piss him off again.

Which, in turn, pisses _him_  off, so he only huffs as a response. For some reason, Malfoy’s calmness doesn’t carry over to him. Quite the opposite, actually. Already antsy from the long and pointless wait, his tone and demeanour only serve to exacerbate Harry’s crankiness. And besides, Malfoy sounds as if he’s talking to a child, and Harry hates the implications of that. So he doesn’t stop to think before he opens his mouth, but instead says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Really? I didn’t think people would let you near them.”

Malfoy scoffs, looking away for a second and pressing his mouth into a thin line of disdain. His nostrils flare minutely, once, twice, until he has them back under control. They are back to Mr Iceface, and his voice certainly matches his expression. It is level and clearcut, with only a trace of inflection. “ _People_ usually believe me when I tell them I have plenty of experience in the matter.”

He’s right, of course, but Harry is definitely not going to admit that. Their conversation from the evening before comes back to him (“ _Potter, I work at a hospital…”_ ), and other images, much older, and much less welcome. It’s one thing to tease Malfoy about his former proclivity for the Dark Arts ( _former_ only because Harry hasn’t heard any recent stories to the contrary), and quite another to imply he is doing anything other than his job. Which is why, right now, Harry isn’t sure what to say, or how to dig himself out of this hole of passive-aggressiveness he has dug himself into. So, for once, he doesn’t say anything.

The silence stretches between them for what feels like several minutes, until Malfoy sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks tired, Harry thinks, and the lime green of his Healer robes isn’t a good colour on him. It makes him look drained, even more pale and pointy than usual.

“Potter, you do realize that that was a low blow, even for your standards?”

Harry, now slightly deflating and surprised by the tone of disinterested civility still audible in Malfoy’s voice, shrugs.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m tired, I guess, and I wasn’t thinking.”

“Are you ever?” Malfoy replies, but Harry thinks there is a faint smile playing around his lips for a moment. Just a twitch of the corners of his mouth that is gone in an instant. It’s strange, unusual, new. But not bad, he thinks. Definitely not bad. And a far cry from the mask of ice he has worn just moments before.

“Look, Potter, I’m sorry that you’re pissed off because you have been kept waiting for ages, but we were rather busy around here, saving lives and all.” 

 _And another point where Malfoy obviously has the moral and argumentative high ground_ , Harry thinks. He figures some sort of answer is required of him, so he shrugs, and adds: “I don’t suppose you have any tea around here, do you? I could really use a cup, and you look like you do, too.”

“Nothing that deserves the name, no,” Malfoy says, and the twitch is back for a second. “But I guess I could get you something that looks like drain water and tastes marginally better, if that’s what you’re after. I’m not sure it deserves the name tea, though, and milk is out, I’m afraid.”

“Whatever,” Harry murmurs, and Malfoy apparently takes this as a yes because he summons them two cups, teabags and a huge sugar bowl, and sets the kettle to boil. Soon they both have a steaming cup of something vaguely resembling tea sitting in front of them (Malfoy’s has four, _four_ spoons of sugar in it), but they are nowhere nearer to having the conversation they are supposed to be having. Harry knows he’s the one who’s supposed to ask the questions, but right now he’s content with wrapping his hands around his warm teacup and letting the hot steam mist up his glasses. So, of course it is Malfoy who breaks the silence.

“Now, what is it your lot want to know?” he asks, his own cup halfway to his mouth. “Because you’re here to ask about the curse victims, are you not?” He sips at his tea experimentally, frowns, and adds another spoon of sugar.

Harry nods, grateful for the opener, and wonders whether Malfoy would prefer to drink syrup instead of tea. “I am. Early this morning, two of _our lot_ were called in on something that looked a lot like a domestic incident. A husband and father of three had apparently been hit with a bad curse, in his own family home, at half past three in the morning. The medics first on the spot couldn’t do much except  secure him and take him to a Muggle hospital. All the while he was in very bad shape, twisting and screaming incessantly. At least that’s what Aurors Malik and Woodhouse reported. Later on he got transferred here, where I’ve been told you have been able to examine and stabilize him.”

Malfoy nods in the affirmative. “What do your people think happened?”

“At first we suspected a domestic quarrel, the wife throwing hexes at her husband to get him out of her hair or something, but that’s definitely not possible.”

“Why not?” Malfoy’s voice has a strange ring to it, and Harry has the uncanny feeling that he is being tested on something. Almost as if Malfoy already knows the answer to this question and wants to see if Harry does too.

Fortunately, he does.

“The wife’s a Muggle. So are two of his three kids. Only one of them is magical, and he’s off at Hogwarts.”

Malfoy nods, taking another sip of his tea. The way he holds his cup halfway up to his face all the time, fingers wrapped around the hot porcelain, Harry suspects he’ll be hiding behind his beverage for their entire conversation.

“Yes, I can see how this might complicate matters. But I suppose you’re telling me this because the Aurors think there is a connection between this unlucky family fellow and some of our other patients?”

“See,” Harry says, “that’s the thing we don’t know. Is there? A connection, I mean?”

He thinks Malfoy’s smile makes another, flickery appearance. Is it possible that the stupid git is actually enjoying himself? In a conversation about vicious curses? Well, it’s Malfoy, and if he’s entirely honest, Harry probably wouldn’t put it past him.

“You tell me,” Malfoy says, finally putting down his teacup. “We currently have six patients on our ward who were brought in with extensive spell damage, caused by what we believe were some quite powerful curses. This includes your dad of three from this morning, and the lady that kept us all busy this afternoon.”

“ _What you believe_ are powerful curses?”

“Yes, Potter, _what we believe_.” Of course he mirrors Harry’s inflections. “We’re currently unable to name the exact spells that have been used.”

That is not what Harry expected. Somehow, he had always been under the impression the Healers at St. Mungos knew exactly what they were doing at any given time (which now seems like a gross overestimation of their skills and a blatant misrepresentation of anything he knows about wizards in general), and for Malfoy to admit not to know something is nearly unheard of.

Harry suspects a deeper continuation of his line of inquiry is in order, but the only thing he can come up with on the spot is “Why?”

“Well, first of all because the spells look like nothing Chief Healer Wilson, I, or anyone else on this ward have ever seen before. Very complex, some of them very unstable, and probably very old.”

He counts down his words on his fingers, and for a moment Harry is mesmerized by the fluid movements. Malfoy’s next words and the urgency behind them brings him back to the conversation at hand. He really needs to focus more, dammit.

“And _secondly_ , because until this morning, we treated all of these patients as spell accidents. We didn’t look for any connections between the three other incidents because we had no reason to believe that there were any. All previous patients have either been brought in by their families or friends, or been found in public places. They seemed to be the victims of spell experiments gone badly, _not_ of what quite possibly were deliberate attacks. We’ll have to revise that assessment now, of course.”

 _Hell yeah you will_ , Harry thinks. Out loud, he manages to tone his assessment down to a semi-polite “Quite probably.”

Malfoy’s gaze doesn’t meet his, and for a moment Harry wonders whether it is possible that he feels uncomfortable about his department’s apparent short-sightedness. But is it because of the patients or because of the danger this lapse in professional judgement poses to his own reputation? Because he can’t answer that question, Harry continues with another.

“What can you tell me about the victims?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.” Malfoy’s words indicate he’s sorry about the fact, and to Harry’s surprise he also looks it.

“Like I said, the symptoms are wildly different, and so seem the curses that caused them. Some patients appear to be in bad pain, which we’re obviously trying to alleviate as best as we can. Others merely seem to be unconscious or in some kind of stasis. One of them has discolourations all over her body that seem to shift according to some pattern we haven’t been able to determine. None of them are in any state fit for interaction.”

He pauses, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. Their teas rest forgotten in the empty space between them.

“I can probably get you their files so you can read up on the details yourself,” Malfoy says after what must have been some moments of serious deliberation. “They are, of course, strictly confidential, so no blabbing about that to anyone but your boss.”

Harry wants to counter the jibe with something equally stingy, but he can’t think of anything. Instead, he just nods and vows to get back at Malfoy at the next possible opportunity. If this case goes the way he expects it to, he’s probably going to see a lot more of the pointy git than he cares to. For now, civility is probably the best route to follow.

“If you could do that, it would definitely be helpful,” Harry thus agrees quite pleasantly. “And please drop us a line if you find out anything else, or if there’s another unexplained curse accident. The Auror department wants to know about any new developments in the case.”

“Of course you do,” Malfoy replies, and Harry thinks he can detect a tinge of pricklyness in his tone. “Anything else I can help you with?”

No, not pricklyness. Derision, definitely. For once, Harry does not rise to the bait.

“Not tonight, no.” Harry pushes his chair back to get up, and Malfoy follows his movements.

“Well, good night then, Potter. I hope you don’t mind that you’ll have to show yourself out? I still have a round to finish.”

“Not in the least.” Well, if they’re going to play the sarcasm game, Harry can definitely keep up with that. “I wouldn’t want to steal any more of your precious time. It has been a pleasure, as always. Night Malfoy.”

***

When Harry gets into the office the next morning (on time and fully fed and caffeinated), there is a folder waiting on his desk, with a note attached to it that only sports two words in a spiky, elegant script: _Good luck!_


	4. The Devil, upright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Did you think I'd abandoned this fic? Well, I haven't. It's still longer than my PhD thesis (even though that keeps me busy), but the thesis keeps catching up.  
> I'm sorry this is a bit of a filler/setup chapter - we'll get to more plot momentarily. :)

When Draco walks into the staff room on Wednesday evening after finishing his rounds, Potter is there. _Of course he is_. It has taken him all of eight hours to mess up Draco’s life after coming back into it, and forty-eight more to turn into a nuisance. Or rather, to remind Draco of the fact. Because if he is honest, Potter has always been a nuisance, right from that first meeting at Madam Malkins some fifteen years ago, and definitely through their entire school career. Not to mention the war, because he was an even bigger nuisance then.  

Probably not an entirely fair assessment, but after only two days, Draco is already sick of Potter’s face, and the fact that he is dead tired sure as hell isn’t helping, either. Which is probably why the sight of Potter, lounging in one of the cheap plastic chairs with a steaming cup of tea in front of him, annoys him so much. And then there is the question of who has let him in here in the first place. Draco suspects he has very little chance of ever getting to the bottom of that mystery because it’s likely there isn’t a soul in the whole hospital who would say no to Harry bloody Potter. Except, maybe, himself. On a good day. With more sleep, and a tad more self-control.

Disgruntled, Draco stops for just a second and closes his eyes to take a deep breath before he sits down opposite Potter. To his abhorrence, Potter smiles brightly.

“Evening, Malfoy!” _Oh Merlin, give me strength. Why on earth is he so cheerful?_  

“Potter,” Draco nods. He deems the one-word greeting enough to acknowledge Potter’s presence, especially since he did show up unannounced. There is no way Draco is going to mirror his bright expression. Even if it weren’t Potter on the other side of the table, after almost twelve hours of work and a missed lunch break, no visitor can expect more than monosyllabic answers and feigned politeness. And with Potter the bar hangs even lower.

“What do you want?”  

Potter shrugs. “I read your files,” he says, taking a sip from his tea. It smells good, which is to say that it smells like real tea and not like the sorry excuse that the hospital pretends are teabags. Draco wishes he’d brought one to share, but that, he assumes, would have been too much to ask. And where did he get it in the first place?

“Congratulations.”

Potter gives him a look, and Draco feels his annoyance transform into outright anger in an act of alchemy that only Harry Potter is capable of producing. 

“What!? What do you expect me to say?” Draco snaps with a lot more bite than strictly necessary. “You’re doing your job. Do you expect me to give you extra credit for that?”

Potter deflates, putting down his paper cup and holding up his palms. “Easy. I just wanted to see how you’re getting on with the case.”

Draco resists the urge to point out that he would be getting on much better if Potter didn’t keep him from getting in another half-hour of analysis before heading home. Instead, he forces himself to consider the request. He could either give Potter the long answer which has all the medical details on extensive spell damage and discusses the spells he has applied without success, or he could give him the nice, family-friendly abridged version that doesn’t admit all the things they don’t know, or all the things that go wrong while they’re trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with their patients. It would basically be a summary of what Potter already knows and he doesn’t think Potter is stupid enough not to notice. And besides, either of these options sound like far too much effort to think about.

“We’re not.”

“What?” Potter splutters, and Draco swears if any of Potter’s tea ends up on his robes, he is going to hex him, hospital regulations be damned.

Instead, he balls his hand into a fist under the table and takes another deep breath. _Well, it certainly looks like it’s Spelling It Out for the Imbeciles Day_.

“Potter, this is a hospital. I’m sure you know that we have certain procedures we must follow. Like dealing with acute cases and patients who are actually _conscious_  before sinking hours and hours into pacifying the Auror Department. And that’s ignoring the fact that we’re understaffed and have to completely start from scratch with not only one, but _six_ yet unknown curses of unspecified dimensions. So yes, we are working on it. But we can’t do miracles.”

“You need more time.” It is not a question, and to Draco’s relief Potter finally sports a facial expression that looks more or less like seriousness. _Fucking finally. It looks like miracles do happen_. Seizing his chance, he nods in the affirmative.

“Yes, Potter, we need more time. At least until next week, but the more likely scenario is that you and your boss will have to wait till we tell you we’re ready. Rest assured that we will make sure that is as soon as possible.”

“No one doubts that.” All of a sudden, Potter sounds defensive. How nice. Draco can’t help feeling a tad proud of himself.

“Good. Because I’ll have you know that we will not be pushed around. You can tell that to your boss, too, if you like.”

“We?” Potter asks, an expression of fake incredulity replacing the makeshift seriousness from earlier. “Don’t you rather mean _you_?”

Draco crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, feigning confidence. “Same thing.”

“Is it?”

“I suppose so, at least as long as I am the one who has been tasked with keeping the Auror Department updated on our progress.”

“Of course you are.” Potter doesn’t even sound surprised, just resigned. “Isn’t that brilliant. I’m absolutely looking forward to seeing more of you in the future.”  

For a moment, Draco can’t tell whether or not Potter is serious. His voice has a very strange ring to it, half like he is joking, and half like he actually means it. Draco _thinks_ he detects a hint of sarcasm, but with Potter you never know. And then he wonders why he would want to know. After all, he doesn’t even like the bespectacled git.

At least they seem to agree that their conversation is at an end, which means Draco can pack up and go home as soon as Terry and Tiffany Price show up for the night shift. Provided he has managed to get rid of Potter until then. And as for the spell analysis, well, that will have to wait till tomorrow. No thanks to Potter and the Auror Department.

 

***

 

It is almost ten when Draco steps out of the floo at the Manor. He brushes off his robes and makes his way through the empty ante-room and down the hallway to where he can see light under the door of his mother’s parlour. She never eats in the dining room when he works late, and he feels a sudden pang of guilt that, yet again, he has left her all on her own without at least sending an owl to warn her he’d be late. It happens way too often these days, and she worries too much about him already. Being Narcissa Malfoy, she does not say as much, of course; but then, she doesn’t have to. Draco understands her apprehensive looks, the extra biscuits at tea and the tiny, considerate gestures of affection even without the unspoken words accompanying them.

He knocks softly, and when he opens the door, she turns around from where she is sitting by the fire. She must have been reading; a book is splayed open in her lap, and the cup at her elbow is steaming lightly. Illuminated by the fire from the grate, her fine-boned features stand out in strong lights and shadows when she looks up at him. _She looks frail_ , Draco thinks. Too frail, and too unhappy. An empty tea-tray on the small table next to her reassures him that she at least has not sat up waiting for him with dinner, though that is only a small consolation.

“Oh, Draco. I thought it must be you.”

She holds out one slender hand, and Draco takes it into his own as he sits down in the armchair next to her.

“I’m sorry I’m late, mother.”

She shakes her head lightly, brushing her thumb over the back of his hand.

“Don’t worry about it, darling. I am just fine on my own.”

They both know she is not, but Draco keeps up pretences because he knows it makes her happy. They are rather good at this pretending game, and while it makes everything feel terribly fake at times, it also feels comfortable and homely, like a pair of well-worn shoes.

The guilt is also well-worn, a dull ache that barely surprises him anymore.

“I should have owled.”

Another shake and brush.

“You had a busy day, I suppose. And a long one, too. I can see that.”

“Very,” Draco replies, and he is grateful for the serenity she radiates with her entire being.

“Have you had dinner yet?”

This time it is Draco’s turn to shake his head. Narcissa presses her lips together disdainfully for a moment, then she raises her wand and flicks it once for the tinkling sound of a tiny, golden bell. Only seconds later Tiffy appears at her side, eyes wide and apprehensive.

“Mistress has called?”

“Please prepare some dinner for Master Draco, Tiffy. A tray will do.”

The house-elf nods and disappears in a loud crack.

“I wish they would not do that,” his mother sighs, taking up her teacup and finally letting go of Draco’s hand. “It always puts me on edge.”

They sit in silence for several minutes, Draco staring into the flames of the crackling fire, and Narcissa watching him. Draco wonders how some things that have gone unnoticed for years because they were so quotidian can change so completely; how something once familiar and comforting can become a cause of distress. She never had that kind of apprehension before, just like Draco had never been afraid of fire. And how ridiculous that is! The way his heart jumps with every log that crackles and falls in on itself, or how he has to turn around to make sure that the flames he sees in the corner of his eye are in the grate, where they belong, and not anywhere else. It has been years, and yet his brain still insists on coming up with a hundred and one variations of the Room of Hidden Things, and every time Draco wakes up shaking and drenched in sweat. It’s a nightmare alright, but one that carries over into the day.

He has never asked his mother what she dreams about, but he knows she worries, and she is too much on her own. Maybe they really should have left the Manor years ago, but his father would not hear of it, and both Narcissa and Draco had been too exhausted to argue. Now it feels like they are stuck here, with no good reason to leave and too little energy to do so anyway.

At least Draco has the chance to escape to the hospital most days. He is willing to bear the lack of sleep and the occasional nasty patient – or even the nagging of Aurors Potter and Weasley – if that means less hours in the presence of the portraits of disapproving ancestors and the shadows of the past. His mother is not so lucky, and even monthly visits with her sister cannot make up for that.

Another crack announces the return of the house elf and Draco pulls his gaze away from the dancing flames. Tiffy has brought him a tray piled with bread, cold meats, cheese, several different types of pickles and condiments, and, for some reason, a carefully sliced apple. Merlin beware, maybe the house-elf is worrying about him, too.

Draco takes an experimental bite while Tiffy fills him a cup of tea and tops up Narcissa’s. Then the house-elf disapparates, Narcissa’s empty tray in hands, which makes his mother wince. He would have to talk to Tiffy later to see if he can make her leave the room through the door in the future.

He eats in silence while his mother sips on her tea and pretends to read her book. He doesn’t hear her turn over the pages, though, which tells Draco that she is watching him again.

“Tell me about your work, darling. Was it very bad today?”

Draco shrugs, chewing carefully before he answers.

“Not very. But we have a couple of complicated cases at the moment that take up much of our resources. The patients are all stable, or as stable as we can make them be, but the curses are complicated and we’re a far cry from being able to lift them.”

“Dark magic?” Her voice has a slight tremor to it that she tries very hard to suppress.

Draco nods, taking another bite.

“Do you know the curses?”

“I don’t think so.” He feels the urge to take a deep breath. “Which is really part of the problem, because the Aurors want us to figure them out as quickly as possible so they can get to chasing whoever is running around hexing random people.”

She nods, sipping on her tea.

“Is that why Harry Potter was here on Sunday night?”

Draco coughs, trying very hard to swallow a piece of toast and to not suffocate on it. He doesn’t ask how she knows; the answer is most likely called Tiffy. She would be a very bad mistress of the house indeed if she didn’t know what was going on under her own roof.

He shakes his head. “Sunday night had nothing to do with the case. Potter got lost, apparently, and needed somewhere to wait out the storm.”

“Which you provided.”

“Naturally.” Draco fights to keep his voice calm. Narcissa knows it’s a sensitive topic, but that doesn’t mean he needs to give her any more cause for concern.

“I couldn’t very well leave him out in the rain, could I? Or send him back to sleep in his car.”

Narcissa nods, and the silence falls back over them like a blanket.

“Remember that we are very grateful to him,” she says after several minutes filled only with the crackling of the fire and the low ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway.

Draco takes a deep breath. “I _am_ very grateful.” _I just wish I could be grateful from a distance._

“I know, darling.” She smiles and reaches over to touch his arm. “I know.”

Her hand lies just above where the Mark is, and even though they both know it, it’s another thing they do not talk about. Draco tries to not let it distract him from finishing his dinner, with mixed success.

“I had a letter from your father this morning.”

He tenses, carefully putting down his cutlery. Narcissa draws back her hand, wrapping it around her teacup once more.

“What does he say?”

“Nothing of much consequence, I’m afraid. Just the usual reports about his days, what he has been reading, and the occasional thought on the matters of the day thrown in. They do still allow him to get the _Prophet_. Sometimes I wonder whether it wouldn’t be better if they didn’t.”

Draco absolutely agrees with the sentiment, but even after all this time he is loath to speak ill about his father. Even when he knows his mother agrees. 

“I shall have to visit him soon.” Narcissa smiles, but the expression does not quite reach her eyes. “Will you come?”

“Has he asked about me?” Draco tries to keep his voice level, though he is not sure he can fool his mother.

“Only in the broadest terms.” Narcissa watches him closely. “You will have to talk to him eventually, Draco.”

“I will not,” Draco replies, and it sounds far too petulant even to his own ears.

“He is your father, Draco. And he loves you.”

“I know.”

They have had this conversation several times before; Narcissa insisting on pointing out Lucius’ affection for his son and Draco trying to explain that knowing is not the problem. Because Draco has never had trouble seeing that both of his parents love him very much. It is the way his father likes to show said love that is the issue. In Draco’s opinion, it involves far too many set values, a good deal of meddling, and a handful of expectations that Draco will never be able to live up to, something that usually leads to rather ugly arguments whenever they are in each other’s company. Which is why he has decided a while ago that the simplest and least exhausting solution is to stay away from his father as much as possible. That strategy smacks decidedly of cowardice, but it is surprisingly easy to follow through with considering his father is currently residing in Azkaban. Evading his mother’s pleading looks and gentle admonitions is a lot more difficult, but his work is as good an excuse as any, and he can suppress the guilt of refusing her on most days. Today does not seem to be such a day.  

He places the dinner tray on the side table and sits up a little straighter.

“Mother, I will not go to Azkaban with you. You know that I cannot.” He hopes he sounds as firm as he wants to. Firm, but gentle. Maybe something more is needed to soften the blow.

“I will not go to Azkaban, but I have a night shift on Sunday, which means I can accompany you when you visit Aunt Andromeda. Would you like that?”

She smiles again, and this time it is genuine.

“Very much. And I think Andromeda would be pleased to see you, too. It has been a while.”

It has indeed. Draco reckons three months at the very least. Narcissa had spent Christmas with her sister, but Draco, anxious to avoid any unpleasant encounters with Andromeda’s potential other guests, had been glad when Healer Wilson had asked around for volunteers to spend Christmas Day on the ward. It is one of the traits Draco likes about his boss; while she has no qualms about simply assigning people, she has made it a habit to ask for their preferences first. And as for spending Christmas at work, Draco can definitely think of worse things.

The ward is usually quite pleasant on Christmas Day, with families trickling in all day to visit their loved ones. They usually don’t mind him much, and Draco likes it that way. The only people who ever truly acknowledge his presence are the Longbottoms, anyway. Their first meeting some five years ago had been rather awkward, with Mrs Longbottom being all snappish and haughty when they had been introduced by her grandson, and Draco not meeting either of their eyes. Since then, they have fallen into a strange kind of routine. The two of them would visit around two on Christmas Day and spend about two or three hours with Neville’s parents. After that, Draco would invite them to the tea kitchen for a mug of punch and whatever sweets and snacks he had managed to procure from the house-elves that morning. Mrs Longbottom would chat about nothing in particular, Neville would talk about his work with magical herbs and fungi, and Draco would question him on potential medical uses of his latest discoveries. Then they would leave for home, while Draco is left alone with his book and his patients.

All things considered, Neville’s behaviour towards Draco is surprisingly amicable, particularly in light of their shared past. And Draco is proud to report that he has even managed to congratulate him on his recent appointment as Herbology teacher at Hogwarts. They are not friends – not by a far stretch of the word – but they have somehow learned to tolerate each other’s presence, at least in the confines of the hospital wards on Christmas Day.  

Draco is startled out of his reverie by a light touch on his arm.

“Darling,” his mother says, voice soft with care and tiredness, “I think you should go to bed soon.”

He nods, untangling himself to get up. “You know, I think I will. But so should you.”

She answers his smile with her own. Before he can leave, she reaches for his hand, and when Draco bends down to place a light kiss on her hair, she presses her slender, fragile fingers into his reassuringly.

“Good night, my Darling Draco.”

He can’t help the smile that steals itself on his face. She hasn’t called him her Darling Draco for ages, and while he suspects he should find it cheesy and entirely below his dignity (he’s twenty-six, after all), he can’t shake the feeling of comfort and warmth the words evoke.

 

***

 

The next few days pass surprisingly unspectacularly. After the eventful beginning of the week, Draco has somehow expected the second half to continue equally packed, but in truth it ends up being decidedly normal, and almost boring. Once the early excitement about the double attack is over, work on the ward resumes normally. Thursday and Friday bring them their usual share of misfired hexes and badly done healing spells ( _If only people would stop home-healing and leave that to the experts, that would save everyone so much unnecessary excitement_.), and on Saturday Madam Pomfrey sends over a fourth-year Ravenclaw who is covered in rainbow-coloured, pulsing boils. Unfortunately for her, while the discolourations are easy enough to deal with, the underlying deeper damage to her cell structure warrants a weekend in hospital and some close observation.

In the time between rounds and emergencies, Draco, Terry, Deborah, and the two Healers in Training take turns analysing the curse victims. They have divided them up among themselves somewhat loosely (with Draco drawing the short straw and ending up with the double attack), but the general consensus is to just keep chipping away at whichever case they are making the most progress with. To keep up with each other’s work, they follow a system of colour-coded folders and notes of Terry’s devising. It’s reasonably simple and actually quite ingenious. Depending on how it holds up long-term, Draco might even deign to mention as much to Terry at some point.

Unfortunately, there isn’t too much to put into Terry’s rainbow-coloured files yet, and whatever little there is mostly reports all the things they don’t know, rather than the things they do. There are lists of several dozen common and almost as many less common counter spells for all the usual curses they have tried to no avail. It’s the same for a handful of general charms, and the entire potions cupboard of St Mungo’s. On Thursday, Deborah has a minor success when she tries to replicate the magic signature of the curse used on Mrs Murphy in its entirety, but the colourful, warping spell-copy they now have floating in a containment field in an empty ward has so far refused to give up its secrets. In short, the only two things they are certain of at this point are that they are looking at at least five different spells (both of Draco’s patients seem to be suffering from the same symptoms, but to varying degrees), and that any one of these spells must be either very rare, or modified by someone who knows their way around very advanced charms and curse work.

By Saturday afternoon, Draco is ready to consign Terry’s files to a hearty fire and drop dead on the sofa, provided it is placed opposite said fire. By the looks of it, Healer Price shares his feelings. They finish their evening rounds in companionable silence, talking only when checking on the patients requires it, and Draco is grateful Tiffany isn’t trying to make conversation. It’s not that he doesn’t like her (he does), but it’s one less thing to focus on, and with the little sleep he has gotten over the last days (interrupted by nightmares more often than not), he is grateful for every last thing not competing for his attention.

They make it to the staff room with about forty-five minutes to spare on their shift, where they are greeted by a silent war raging between Terry’s files and at least a dozen used mugs and other assorted crockery that threaten to take over every available surface space. Draco removes a pile of loose parchments from one of the chairs and Tiffany experimentally picks up a tea towel.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she says, swinging the towel around like a very limp and slightly dirty flag. “I’ll do the dishes if you deal with the paperwork.”

Draco wonders momentarily when she has picked up on his aversion towards washing up, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? “Deal!” he grins as she draws her wand to Summon the dirty mugs, while Draco sifts through the piles of parchment on the table.

 

***

 

It’s almost ten again when he gets home, and this time the Manor is dark and silent. He considers skipping dinner and heading straight to bed, but he hasn’t had anything to eat since lunch, and in the end, he decides against it. He heads down to the kitchen, not bothering to light the candles as he walks down the corridors by wandlight. Most of the portraits are asleep, but Old Septimus is still up, drinking his usual glass of port and giving Draco a shrewd look as he passes.

“Out late again, are we?” he calls after Draco as he heads down the kitchen stairs. Draco ignores him. It’s enough he has to deal with his parents; he doesn’t need advice from an ancestor who has been dead for more than half a century.

In the kitchen, he finds Tiffy and Winkin in a bit of a pot-scrubbing frenzy, and he is about to head back upstairs when the house-elves spot him. Tiffy insists on making him scrambled eggs and toast even though it’s almost their time off, and Winkin shifts some of the large copper pans he’s been polishing so that Draco can sit down at the hardwood kitchen table. Like everything at the Manor, those pots are far too large to make food for two people and two house-elves, and Draco wonders again what they are still doing here. The food is still very good, though, and while he eats, Draco watches his suspicion that Tiffy worries about him grow into something much more solid. She insists on seconds, and Draco is too tired to argue. He is also too tired to stop her from topping up the fire in his room, or from bringing him a hot water bottle because “it’s cold and wet and Master Draco is working so hard and Master Draco will get sick if he isn’t being careful.”

 _Maybe she’s right_ , Draco thinks as he drifts off into sleep, wrapped in thick duvets and with a pleasant warmth spreading from the bottle at his feet.

 

***

 

Draco wakes up to a bleak and dreary day, with heavy clouds pressing down over the equally bleak and dreary landscape outside. Wiltshire is a bit dull even on good days, but today it’s downright depressing. The best thing today has going for it is that Draco has finally managed to catch a full night of sleep. That, and the visit with his aunt later.

After a leisurely breakfast in the company of his mother, Draco retires to the library. He spends the day scouring the shelves for hints of the mystery curses, to little avail. If there is indeed information on what hit their patients, it is not to be found in the library at Malfoy Manor. At least not in the books he still has available; it seems like his father has gotten rid of most of the darker spell books Draco remembers from his youth. He is just about to check the library inventory, meticulously kept by countless generations of Malfoys before him, but somewhat neglected in recent years, when Tiffy walks in. She is very polite, but also very determined when she reminds him that it is now time to get ready to leave.

Fifteen minutes later, the books are all but forgotten, pushed out of Draco’s head by a short walk in the dusk, a warm welcome, the smell of food, and Teddy’s never-ending questions about jinxes and transformation spells. (Draco tries very hard to discourage such questions, with very little success.)

 

They are just sitting down for dinner when Andromeda’s wards chime. Andromeda is busy serving lasagna to an overexcited Teddy while his mother arranges dishes and cutlery, so Draco gets up without being prompted. “I’ll get it.”

He passes out into the dark hallway, drawing his wand while he walks over to the front door. The wards didn’t sound like a warning spell, just one of the usual ones announcing a familiar visitor, but he prefers to be prepared for any eventuality. Andromeda’s front door is solid oak with a stained-glass window that lets in the light of the streetlamps outside, showing the outline of a visitor of about Draco’s height, probably male, though nothing more that would indicate his identity. That doesn’t mean that Draco doesn’t have an inkling who their visitor might be – an inkling that turns into certainty as soon as he pulls the door open.

Wrapped in a shoddy, oversized leather jacket that has definitely seen better days (probably at the beginning of the last century) and shuffling against the cold, is Potter. Because, of course. By now, Draco should have gotten used to the fact that the universe seems to like to conspire against him. It still pisses him off.

When he hears the door scrape against the stone floor of the hall, Potter looks up. He blinks a couple of times, then he grins sheepishly.

“Hullo, Malfoy.”

“Potter,” Draco says, taken aback by the tone in Potter’s voice. It’s decidedly not unfriendly and he doesn’t quite know how to answer. “Are you here for dinner?” he tries. In fact, he wouldn’t put it past Potter to turn up to annoy him on purpose.

Potter looks confused for a moment, then he shakes his head rather more violently than necessary. “What? No. I promised Teddy I’d lend him my _Cannons_ book and I only just remembered.”

He holds up the book in question. It’s bright orange, and under his fingers, ruddied from the cold, a pair of equally brightly-dressed quidditch players are making their moves. _Flying with the Cannons_. Goodness. Potter really is beyond help.

“If you’re trying to win over my cousin for your abysmal quidditch team, stop right there. He doesn’t deserve that. In fact, no one does.” Draco tries to sound scathing, but it’s half-hearted and he can tell it’s not working.

Potter grins in reply. “I’m afraid it’s already too late for that. But I swear have nothing to do with it. It’s entirely Ron’s doing.”

“And you’re standing idly by?” Draco isn’t even sure he wants to know the answer to that question.  

Potter shrugs. “I’m not going to argue with them; they are frightening if they team up against you.”

Draco can’t help a laugh. “I can imagine.”

“Can you?”

Draco pauses to think. No, not really. It’s not like he knows Weasley very well, and Teddy changes too much between their irregular encounters for him to form a fixed opinion of the boy. Maybe he should visit more often.

Potter, it turns out, seems to have developed a knack for reading his mind.

“You don’t visit a lot, do you?” he asks, still shuffling around, and still not handing over the damned book.

“Not really, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like running into people I don’t like. Or who don’t like me.”

Potter gives him a shrewd look. Then he shrugs. “Fair enough.” He holds out the book. “Don’t tell them you saw me, or Teddy will make me come in. I don’t want to spoil your dinner.” 

“You’re not –“ Draco says before he can stop himself.

“Yes, I am. Good night, Malfoy.” With that, Potter turns around on the spot and disapparates.

Draco stares at the point where Potter just vanished for several minutes before he catches himself. Shivering, he turns and heads back inside. When he pulls the door closed behind him, his brain catches up with the fact that he doesn’t have a good explanation for why he comes back with a book, but not with the person who delivered it. Cursing under his breath, he rummages in Andromeda’s hallway cupboard until he finds ink, a scruffy quill and a piece of parchment.

As it turns out, the ruse is good enough to fool Teddy, but not his aunt. At least Andromeda has the decency to wait till they are alone in the kitchen doing the dishes before she calls him out.

“That’s your handwriting.”

The plates he’s been piling up in the sink wobble precariously. Draco glances back at the living room before he answers. It looks like Narcissa and Teddy are still busy looking at the pictures of garishly orange flying pumpkins, commonly known as the Chuddley Cannons.

“Potter didn’t want to come in.”

“Why not?” Andromeda asks, and Draco thinks it might be the only logical question.

“Because, and here I quote, he didn’t want to spoil our evening.”

“Ah. And you two – are you getting along?”

Draco shrugs and makes the plates shift so that he can fit a couple more into the sink. “After a fashion.”

She nods appreciatively and doesn’t ask any further questions after that, but the looks she gives him are more curious than he likes, and Draco isn’t too sorry to escape to his shift at the hospital soon after.

 


End file.
